


When Did You Last Let Your Heart Decide?

by hephaestiions



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Anal Sex, Anger, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Blow Jobs, Depression, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Harry Potter Epilogue What Epilogue | EWE, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Panic Attacks, Therapy, because communication is beyond important, especially when you are these boys, lots and lots of talking, there's talking here
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-20
Updated: 2019-07-20
Packaged: 2020-05-15 12:44:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 14
Words: 50,364
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19296013
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hephaestiions/pseuds/hephaestiions
Summary: "I can show you the world."Our world is a broken disaster. A world separated by death and devastation."Shining, shimmering, splendid."Torn, darkened, burnt."I can open your eyes."My eyes are watering from the smoke."Take you wonder by wonder."Are you a wonder? Could you please, please take me somewhere?





	1. A Whole New World

**Author's Note:**

  * For [slowestdive](https://archiveofourown.org/users/slowestdive/gifts).



> Inspired by prompt: 'A Whole New World' - Aladdin.  
> Thank you, thank you so much for the prompt. It was beautiful to write and I hope I did it justice.

When Hermione Granger approaches Draco Malfoy in the middle of Diagon Alley in October after the War, Draco _hears_ the jaws of a few onlookers drop. The public surprise isn’t unexpected, nor is the fact that every witch or wizard in the vicinity is watching the proceedings with covert interest (a few daring enough to not be quite as covert). Granger is, after all, a war hero- a respectable, reputable witch, lined up to receive an Order of Merlin, First Class, alongside Weasley and Potter. Privately, Draco thinks Granger should be the _only_ one of the trio to receive that level of honour given the fact that Potter has a well aimed disarming spell to his name and Weasley is… well, Weasley.

But what does a former Death Eater with a brand on his arm defining the rest of his life know of such things? These honours, they are the rewards of being on the right side of history. This time, the Malfoys unfortunately aren’t.

What is unexpected however, is Granger, a determined look on her features coming up to Draco, placing her hand on his shoulder with surprising firmness and telling him in a low undertone that she would like to meet with him in a less public setting without an ounce of derision or hostility in her tone or her features.

She seems, for lack of a better word to describe how bizarre the situation is, kind. “You could have sent an owl,” Draco says after a few seconds of dumbfounded staring at her open expression, trying to gauge the plot she must be concealing because surely, Hermione Granger is not calling him to Sunday brunch for social niceties. He comes up with nothing. Granger looks as earnest as Godric Gryffindor himself– Draco finds it hard to laugh in her face at the mere concept of ‘meeting’ though it is what he wants to do.

She hesitates for a few moments before saying haltingly, “We-we don’t have an owl.”  
“We?”

“Harry, Ron and I. We’re living together you see, it’s all still a bit chaotic what with Fred… the Burrow isn’t somewhere the three of us wanted to land up in, Molly has enough on her plate after all and- I’m sure you don’t care at all but it’s, well, Harry lost his owl a while back, Hagrid gave him the owl before first year, he was quite attached, and now he refuses to buy a new one so Ron and I, we don’t–”

At this point, Draco has begun to get dizzy from the sheer speed at which she talks and how much information she seems willing to share with him about their personal lives, even if it does happen to be about Potter’s owl. He holds up a pointed hand to stall her barrage of words.

“You’re quite right, I don’t care. If you didn’t have an owl, you could have gone to a public owlery. In fact, fuck a public owlery, if you went to the Minister to ask him to lend you his owl, I’m sure he’d do it. Of course, I’m not certain even a public owlery would allow you to send its oldest, blindest owl to me. No, what I don’t understand is why you would want to…” He trails off, uncertain how to put the fact that Granger of all people had suggested a private meeting which Draco could not agree to.

Granger is Granger. War hero. ‘Brightest witch of the era’ in keeping with the Daily Prophet’s overdramatic and rather amusing tradition of finding ridiculous epithets for every public figure.

Draco is… ‘youngest of Voldemort’s loyal supporters, otherwise known as Death Eaters’.

Anyone with half a brain is quite capable of understanding exactly why they should never meet in private. Or in public. Or anywhere.  
“Would you mind terribly if I apparated you, Malfoy?”

The question catches him unawares, almost makes him believe that Granger has finally and quite officially lost the plot.

“Where to?” He asks bewildered and wary. He’s somewhat sure she will not lead him to a slaughterhouse, even if she does appear to be slightly unhinged with these cryptic requests and questions but in the post-war climate, one can never be completely sure.  
“Since your response wasn’t a vehement ‘no, don’t touch me with your filthy mudblood hands’, I’m going to Apparate you,” she says pretty matter of factly. By the time the words sink in, the pull behind his navel is already a disorienting pressure at the back of his brain.

When they land, he doesn’t know how to feel. Impressed by her nerve, bewildered by her willingness to disappear with him pretty much in public, indignant because she did bring him somewhere completely unknown or terrified for his- frankly worthless- life. He settles on a stony glare, hoping it conveys all of those emotions, crosses his arms and waits.  
The look on her face is speculative. She seems to be sizing him up, reading into his expression with a frighteningly intense gaze. At long last, when the staring contest has begun to get a tad awkward and his eyes sting from not blinking, she sighs. “Sit down, Malfoy,” she says. “ I’m going to make tea. Don’t think of going somewhere else, don’t think of drawing your wand, don’t think of anything funny, sit down and wait for me or I’ll make sure you live to regret it.”

She disappears and Draco takes stock of his surroundings, convinced at this point that all this is an elaborate hallucination. Someone in Diagon Alley must have thrown a curse at him and he’s standing in the middle of the road at this moment, making a spectacle of himself. When a sharp pinch to his thigh does not change his surroundings, he shrugs. If it is a hallucination, he might as well see what he can come up with.

If it isn’t, well.

The place, he realises, surveying what appeared to be the drawing room, seems to be a dilapidated dump of ornate furniture, peeling wallpaper and a layer of dust and grime which appears to be permanently attached to the walls and ceiling. Draco wrinkles his nose slightly. His fortunes aren’t quite as extensive as they were prior to the war reparations the Malfoys were made to pay but he has grown up in lavish style and immaculate surroundings. Even now, when by all rights nothing should faze him with regards to poor upkeep, he can’t help but let his Pureblood upbringing come to the fore from where it lies, simmering underneath the surface of his calm acceptance of the less pleasing aspects of Wizarding society.

The room seems to have a faintly musty odour and he recognises it as one where too many cleaning charms have been applied but the smell itself is sentient and obstinate. Draco knows the process all too intimately, the Manor itself is resistant to simple cleaning charms at the moment. This place is no Manor but it is an old Wizarding House and despite not having seen the rest of it, Draco knows with certainty it will be beautiful once restored.

But right now, under the presumable and questionable care of Granger, Potter and Weasley, the only clean space appears to be the three couches in front of the fireplace where he assumes Granger had instructed him to sit. Moving over, he gingerly sits, still not entirely sure this isn’t an elaborate trap to capture him, turn him into a singing canary and let him loose in the wilderness of Muggle London.

Honestly, it will not be less than what he deserves.  
When a familiar pattern catches his eye on the carved mantel, Draco leans over, curiosity propelling him forward. It is made of dark, expensive wood, covered from top to bottom in runic calligraphy. There are ancient runes there which he itches to translate, run his palm over and appreciate thoroughly before he has to leave wherever Granger has seen fit to bring him. It is the type of exquisiteness one finds in old pureblood Wizarding furniture. Draco isn’t sure how any of the trio came across this place but if the rest of the pieces in the house are this beautiful, Draco envies them.

He reaches out to trace the carved work when he hears a throat being cleared and jerks back with such alarming speed that a shock travel up his upper arm from his elbow.

The familiar roil of panic surges through him, churning ominously in his stomach. His brain is going foggy and Draco has one moment of blinding, devastating panic and he thinks not right now, not again, not here-

But it is too late. He’s spiralling already

_This is someone else’s house, someone else’s home and he has no right, no right at all to presume he can touch anything, Granger will surely throw him out, give him over to the Aurors, press more charges than the ones already against his name, he will be thrown back into Azkaban and nobody would be able to save him this time, nobody will be kind to him, he will rot alone in a cell, he doesn’t even know where he is, he cannot escape, Granger will never let him escape, the Aurors will not let him escape, stupid Draco, stupid, stupid Draco, how will he go home, fuck, Merlin fuck–_

The throat clearing again halts his train of thought.

“Tea?”

Draco blinks. Looks up. Blinks again. Granger’s face swims in and out of focus. His breathing is erratic, his heart still lurching inside his chest, wanting to break free of his ribs. He blinks again. He keeps blinking as hard and fast as he can, trying to get out the visions from the crevices of his consciousness.

It doesn’t help.

Even through the haze in his mind, Draco can see Granger’s expression shifting. He didn’t know what it had been and he didn’t know what it is now but the frown between her eyes is prominent enough for him to notice through the cloud of fog in his head. She places the tray in her arms on the couch and sits in front of him on her haunches on the rug, her steps slow, her movements careful.  
  
“Malfoy? Are you alright?”

He blinks in her direction. He is sure he’s a right sight- maybe she will laugh at him.

_Maybe she will take advantage of the way he is vulnerable right now, maybe she will draw her wand, maybe she will hex him, he doesn’t want to be hexed, he doesn’t want to go back to the Aurors, Merlin shite, she will take him back to the Aurors, of course she will, shite, shite, Salazar, fuck, fuck, fuck–_

The pressure on his wrists startles him. The fog has thickened, the world is swimming. And then a voice cuts though it, “Breathe with me, Malfoy. One, two, three…”  
  
_Malfoy? Malfoy is his father. His father is in Azkaban. He doesn’t want to go to Azkaban. He doesn’t want to go to the Aurors, no, he just wants to go to sleep, he doesn’t want this._

“Draco. Draco, breathe with me. Draco, you need to breathe. Draco, can you hear me?”

Draco. Draco is _his_ name. He can do this. He can breathe, can’t he? He can breathe.  
  
“One… Two… Three…”

Draco mentally counts along. He breathes, slow and deep and exaggerated until the fog clears and the fireplace and Granger and the hideously green couch swim back into focus.

“Can you hear me? Nod if you can’t speak.”

“I can hear you.”

His voice is raspy, unrecognisable. It is exactly the way it sounds after the times these thoughts eat at him from the inside, every time he can’t bring himself back to reality. Sometimes it takes hours, sometimes it takes days to achieve true lucidity. Sometimes it feels like hours but only minutes have passed.

“Good,” Granger says. “Take a deep breath, hold it, count to ten and then let it out.”

He complies.  
  
“Now tell me five things you can see.”

With every single instruction Granger gives him, things begin to seem clearer and sharper. He focuses on his surroundings and says, “You, the fireplace, the photo above it, the carpet, the tea tray.”

“You’re doing pretty great. Four things you can hear?”  
  
“Your voice. Birds. Voices. I can’t hear–”

“It’s alright. Do you feel a bit better?”

Draco nods. The embarrassment is settling in, the utter shame of losing his composure this spectacularly in front of _Granger_ , the greater shame of her comforting him.

“Do you want tea?”

He nods again.

“How do you take it?”

“Two sugars.”

“Alright.”

Draco looks away.

Focuses his gaze on the photograph above the mantle. It appears to be of the Weasley family. Guilt threatens to overwhelm him again.

He looks away.

He looks towards the runes which had gotten him into this mess in the first place. The panic rears its ugly head.

He looks away.

He chooses to focus on Granger’s hair, trying to count the curls on it, to have something to do that grounds him. Numbers always ground him.

_Fifty, fifty one, fifty two._

When she raises her head, he starts.  
Taking the tea and cupping his trembling palms around the warmth of it, he turns his head away from Granger who has moved on to the couch to sit beside him. Draco can’t bring himself to meet her eyes _._

“What happened there, Malfoy?”

Ah, the inevitable question.

“You seemed to know what to do about it, don’t you know what it is?” He knows, he knows he is being a bastard, a right ungrateful, poncey one at that but he can’t help himself. The shame prickles under his skin, on the back of his neck, behind his eyelids.

“Are you seeing someone about it?”

He can't help but stare at her before saying incredulously, “ _Obviously_ not.”

“Why not? That was a pretty awful panic attack and if your attitude right now is anything to go by, it happens often. Probably on a larger scale. You’ve got to go see someone! They’ll keep getting worse and–”

She isn’t letting it go.

“Can we not talk about it?” he asks her. 

She throws her hands up, “Malfoy, all of us have issues after the war! I have panic attacks too, I go see someone about it, Ron sees someone about it and Harry, Harry has PTSD of the worst sort and none of it is shameful or bad or anything, we all need help after the debacle of the War, it’s what Mind Healers are for!”

Draco gives her a wry smile. “Potter doesn’t see someone?”

The change washing over her face is instantaneous. Her jaw clenches, her eyes harden. She looks away, then looks to the mantel and looks down. Looks at the cup of tea Draco is holding. Eventually she looks at him and her shoulders slump ever so slightly. Draco feels guiltier than he is comfortable to admit.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“He’s too stubborn.”

Draco understands. He doesn’t presume to think he understands the true extent of Potter’s trauma but if the horrors he has had to endure are even half as much as what Draco has, he wouldn’t want to share them with someone else. It is in a way ironic that Potter has possibly seen _double_ the horrors.

“No one would want to service someone with the Dark Mark, Granger. Not even supposedly unbiased St. Mungo’s healers.”

“Have you tried?” She is infuriatingly adamant. 

“Of course not.”

Granger sighs. She stays quiet for a few minutes and Draco can hear a clock ticking somewhere. Then she straightens and with her usual determination, says, “Your mental health isn’t why I initially wanted to contact you.”

“Did you want an apology?” Draco asks. He expected this. In fact he’s prepared for it.

Granger looks at him with an odd expression and says, “What?”

“An apology, Granger, surely you know what it means?”  
  
“Don’t be a snide prat with me, Draco. What apology?”  
  
She continues, to Draco’s puzzlement and slight amusement, to switch between calling him Draco and Malfoy. He doesn’t know whether to find it annoying or amusing. He himself cannot imagine calling her Hermione yet. In any case, the question she asked deserves a response, no matter how humiliating it is for him.

“For the war? For six years of bullying? For the Manor and the Fiendfyre and the other fucked up shite–” He pauses at Granger’s expression. She isn’t looking surprised or amused or happy but instead rather blank.

“Is this not the right way to go about apologising?” He asks eventually, unsure of how to take her expression. It isn't one he has encountered on her usually expressive face. 

“I didn’t… ever expect an apology from you, Malfoy. And moreover, you did send that letter. After the testimony.”

Draco laughs self depreciatingly. “If that letter was enough to erase all these years, we ought to be sitting in the Leaky with a pint in our hands. The best of friends.”

Granger frowns. “I don’t like you,” she says after a while, biting her lower lip. “I don’t like you right now and I don’t know if I ever will. But Malfoy, after what I saw, I can’t say I don’t respect you for living where you did. And for stepping out into Diagon Alley. And for not, not… giving up.”

Draco’s sure his mouth is open. He stares at her, at a complete loss because of all the things he expected, this isn’t it.

“But, but… Mudblood!”

Granger’s eyebrows shoot into her hairline.

“No, I’m not calling you one, of course I’m not. Without you, we’d likely all be dead. If you’re a Muggleborn and you still managed what you did, we should _all_ desire mud in our blood. But, surely you’re not forgiving me for calling you… what I did and tormenting the Weasel- Weasley the way I did and Potter, fuck, Potter- surely you expect more from me- you haven’t forgiven me and the Aurors haven’t forgiven me-”

“Slow down, Malfoy, you’ll dive headfirst into another attack.”

He closes his mouth, cursing himself colourfully internally for running it in the first place. Unwarranted, unwanted words are shameful, he knows that. It has been drilled into him for years, especially the last couple. He clearly hasn't learnt much. 

“No, I haven’t forgiven you," Granger begins. "Forgiveness won’t come easily. I still hold grudges. I still hate what you stand for. But I’m willing to give you a chance.” She straightens up. “In fact it’s why I wanted to meet you.”

“So you _did_ want an apology.”

She smiles. “Not the sort where you say sorry and grovel at my feet." Then she adds as an afterthought, "Though I wouldn’t mind a bit of that.”

He can’t help but snort. She goes on unperturbed, “But I do have a proposition for you.”

He raises his eyebrows.

She seems to visibly hold herself back from saying whatever first springs to mind before eventually blurting out, “Malfoy, what do you think of Muggles now?”

In any other scenario, he would have headed into another panic attack at that question. But with Granger, things are... oddly comfortable. More than they have been with another individual for a while now. He can _talk_.

“I don’t think I feel much about them anymore.” He pauses with a grimace. “To be honest, I thought they were… animals before." He winces at how that comes out but soldiers on through the truth,"They were inferior, lesser beings. Like House Elves and Goblins. But now, after the Muggles in our cellar, after I heard them talk among themselves… they were just like us. They were terrified and they were scared of magic but they-” He doesn’t know how to say it. “There was a Muggle family in our cellar for a few weeks. Parents and their five year old daughter. He killed them of course, in time. But when I took them food and water at night, the father, he… he would whisper stories to the girl. He would talk about strange Muggle fairytales, sweet ones and he would comfort her every time she cried.” He stops, the words tangling in his throat. He remembers standing outside the cell, quietly, listening to the story himself. It was a winding tale about a princess who went to sleep for a hundred years. He remembers crying, trying to be as soundless as possible as the man told the child her mother had gone to sleep for a while.

She hadn’t. She was dead.

The odd expression is back on Granger’s face.

“Would you agree to a project with me?” she asks.

Of all the things Draco had expected her to say, that hadn't been one. 

“Would you like to hear the Malfoy answer or my answer?” he asks her carefully, after a few moments of internal turmoil as to how exactly one replies to such a comment from someone like Granger.

“Both,” she says, a hint of a faint smile in the crinkle around her eyes.

He manages his own wobbly, unsure smile in return.

“The Malfoy answer is that in the post war climate I would be best benefited to agree to whatever you might see fit to propose. The Malfoy answer agrees to funding whatever you have in mind, agrees to help you with social influence. Agrees to be... associated.” He pauses to take a breath.

“And your- the _Draco_ answer?”

He startles at the use of his name. In the strangeness of the situation, it barely makes a difference and she has been using it periodically all day but it still seems foreign coming from her. “I say I’m going to hear you out,” he replies when he has gained his bearings. He has no idea what else to say. 

She laughs, loud and clear. Draco has heard that laughter from across the hall, around Potter and the Weasel, in class when they're sharing some joke. He has never had cause to hear it up close.

It’s a surprisingly warm sound.

* * *

 

When Harry wakes up, the sunlight slanting into his eyes is blinding.

He doesn’t know who opened the curtains in his room, he makes sure to always keep them closed. It’s probably Hermione, Ron wouldn't bother.

She refuses to let it go.

Something rears its ugly head in the pit of his stomach and he clenches his fist against the surge of annoyance and anger that rises up within him. He knows he shouldn’t be this angry over open curtains or with Hermione or about _every_ little aspect of his life, but somehow he can’t restrain it as it rises and spills out of him in an uncontrollable rush of twisted, broken emotions.

The rage itself sharpens itself to points inside him and he has never experienced something this acutely frustrating and painful. At one point he could have blamed the rage within him, the irrationality and the intrusive thoughts on Voldemort. But now Voldemort is dead, gone, not even a shred of him is left for Harry to lay the blame on.

It makes him sick, as though he’s hollow. As though a piece of him is missing and has left a gaping hole in its wake.

Harry’s missing Voldemort. The smile that he knows is twisting his lips has no joy behind it.  
  
He should get out of bed and eat something, Hermione tells him every day. Talk to Ron. Firecall the Weasleys. Visit Teddy. Visit Andromeda.

Visit, visit, talk, call, visit, smile, talk, talk, talk.

But Harry can’t bring himself to talk anymore. He can’t bring himself to answer Hermione’s anxious questions or meet Ron’s concerned glances. He can’t listen to Teddy’s innocent babbling or endure Molly’s strange, vacant stare.

He’s a ticking bomb. Ready to blast his surroundings to pieces. Not quite himself anymore, not Harry anymore. He hasn’t felt like himself since he took a killing curse directly to the chest.

The months right after the War, Harry had felt something in himself give way with every single funeral he attended and eulogy he found himself giving. By the time he had attended the last one, he felt far more drained than he had ever felt before. The pain of Sirius’ death was compounded a thousand times, the cries of agony and the whizzing lights of Avada Kedavra and Crucio reverberating and echoing in his skull.

Sleep was either elusive or continuous. Either he slept for half an hour and woke up panting with his wand in his hand and visions of Fiendfyre behind his eyes or he slept for a day straight and woke up to Hermione’s panicked screaming for him to wake up.

The last time he had gone to sleep for more than half the day, he had woken up to a living nightmare.

Ron had been standing at the foot of the bed, wand limp in his hand, murmuring, “Harry’s going to wake up, it’s a trick, he’s going to wake up, kill You-Know-Who, he will wake up, he’s not actually dead, not actually dead.”

When Harry sat up, groggy and disoriented, Ron had entreated him to go and kill ‘that noseless bastard once and for all’ and no matter what Harry said, Ron continued to pleadingly beg him to kill Voldemort as though he had no consciousness of where he was. When he went to fetch Hermione after sitting Ron down and telling him he was going to go and get him a glass of water, he found her hyperventilating in the kitchen.

It had been right up there alongside the other worst days of his life– Sirius dying, Dumbledore dying, Fred dying, Ron leaving.

It had taken Hermione half an hour to calm herself while Harry had stared in shock from the other end of the kitchen table, not daring to leave her alone or go nearer. She had somehow managed to Floo Ron’s Healer after, and when she came in, Harry had fixed her a glass of water and a calming draught. Neither of them spoke much till the Healer came back down and said Ron would be alright, he had gone to sleep for now.

Ever since, Harry locks his door before going to bed without fail. Hermione must have unlocked it herself to open the curtains. The thought fills him with a certain confusing fondness for the familiarity of her mother-henning and irritation at being... inspected.

He just wants to be left alone. When he sleeps, if he eats, when he does nothing but stare at the ceiling. 

He can’t gauge the time but figures it must not be too late if no one is yet banging on his door and bursting through. When he casts a Tempus, it shows it’s close to noon. He’s confused and disoriented but drags himself out of bed anyway. Standing in the middle of the room for a few moments, unsure of what he is supposed to do, he decides to change out of the damp, ratty clothes he has worn for almost a… week.

There should be a clean change in the closet. Hopefully.

He hears voices downstairs as he changes out of his pants and pulls on the only clean underwear he could find shoved at the back of the shelf. It’s not Ron, Ron is with George right now. He can make out Hermione’s voice and she seems to either be ranting or explaining a detailed plan to someone.

Nobody has been to Grimmauld Place in the past five months give or take. Harry hates visitors, Ron and Hermione go out frequently to meet other people. They never tell him but bringing over others to the mould infested, rotting dump of a house is going to be a dampener on any conversation one might be interested in having.

When he’s somewhat presentable, he opens the door with the intention of going to the toilet for a slash and to brush his teeth– his mouth tastes like sandpaper– and stops short immediately. The voices he had heard below are much clearer now and while he had been right in guessing Hermione was talking at her usual speed, the other voice comes as a nasty surprise. He would know that particular posh, aristocratic drawl anywhere in a crowd, he could pick it out from ten voices and would turn the other way and walk away as soon as he did.

It’s Malfoy.

Brushing relegated to the least of his priorities, Harry rushes down, wand in hand with the intention of throwing the bastard out of Sirius’ house when the scene that greets him in the kitchen glues his feet to the floor.

Hermione has her back turned and she seems to be cooking– it’s lunch, he thinks absently– and she throws her hand up in the air with periodic exclamations. Malfoy is sitting at the table, upright and attentive, listening to whatever she’s saying and occasionally throwing in a couple sentences himself.  
“-absolutely backdated!” Hermione says, turning around to look at Malfoy. Her cheeks are flushed, her eyes shining with the light they acquire when she has a new project in mind.

“So what you propose is a curriculum for children ensuring when they reach Hogwarts they are of the essentially same magical and muggle background regardless of blood status?” Malfoy asks, chewing his lower lip.

Harry’s grip on his wand tightens as he leans against the doorframe.

“Would anyone care to tell me what a Death Eater is doing in my kitchen?” He keeps his tone deceptively casual, as though he’s asking what Hermione’s cooking for lunch.

Even though he intends the question for Hermione, Harry fixes a hard glare at Malfoy whose eyes had widened when he started speaking, who now flinches and shies away. Hermione herself doesn’t look fazed in the slightest and replies, “He’s here to discuss the Pureblood and Muggle Culture Project with me.”

“And you broke the Fidelius Charm for that? I don’t even know what it is!” Harry asks, incredulous and enraged. Something rattles in the background and Harry feels his magic surge dangerously in his veins.

“No, I did not. Malfoy’s mother is a Black, he has Black blood. The wards and the charms recognise him. I wouldn’t be that idiotic, Harry.” She sounds more exasperated than she has any right to be, bringing Malfoy into his house.

“Well, I’m questioning your intelligence because as far as I can see, there’s a Death Eater holding a– _is that Molly’s mug?_ – in my bloody kitchen looking comfortable as you please!”

“Harry, please–”

“You didn’t ask me! You didn’t bother to tell me when I wake up and come in to the kitchen, I’m going to be greeted by a Death Eater at my place at the table! What on earth is Ron going to think?” Out of the corner of his eye he notices Malfoy has shrunk in on himself. There's a vicious satisfaction he feels in that, knowing that Malfoy is cowering in fear. 

It’s the wrong thing to say however, Harry realises soon when Hermione bangs her hand on the table, an action so uncharacteristic of her that he jumps. “You don’t even eat half your meals, I don’t even remember where your place is at the table! Excuse me if I thought you were going to sleep the day away the way you have the whole of last week!” Her voice has gone up several octaves, her eyes are shining and her lower lip is trembling slightly. 

“It’s my house, Hermione.” The words are out before he can stop them. _They're true_ , he thinks defiantly. _It is my house_. 

She narrows her eyes and glares at him. “Oh yes, _your_ house which you’re cleaning and cooking and helping out in. Of course, _your_ house where you’ve kindly let us stay.” Her anger isn’t misplaced but Harry wants to set the kitchen on fire at the unfairness of her words. When he doesn’t say anything, she shakes her head and says, “Honestly, Harry, that’s a low blow.”

“I’m not airing my dirty linen in front of this ponce. I wish you’d told me before, I’d have called in the Aurors.”

Harry is so concentrated on Hermione, he doesn’t even notice when Malfoy rises from his chair. When he finally does, he’s trembling like a leaf near the doorway.  
“Granger, can you please Apparate me out of here?” Before Hermione can even open her mouth to respond, Harry beats her to it.

“Do it yourself. Oh wait, you can’t, can you? You don’t even know where you are and your Apparating license is gone. _Why? Because you’re a war criminal!_ I could call the Aurors right now and have them drag you out of here by the scruff of your neck, shredding those fancy robes for trespassing in my house and you’ll be taken straight to Daddy Malfoy.” Malfoy’s eyes have widened comically. “Should have let you rot in Azkaban,” he says. “Or better, in the damn Fiendfyre.”

His wand’s in his hand, placed at Malfoy’s bobbing Adam’s apple. He knows he should let it go, but he _can’t_ push it down.

When Hermione pulls him away forcibly with strength he didn’t know she had and tells him to stay away, Malfoy’s a right quivering mess. She Apparates him out of the house and he’s left in the kitchen with the burning remnants of the lunch on the stove.

He should feel something, he guesses. Guilt, remorse, shame, anger.

But all he feels is empty.


	2. A New Fantastic Point Of View

 

When Hermione returns, Harry is sitting on the kitchen floor, wand limp in his fingers, staring vacantly at a leg of the dining table.

He hears the sharp _crack!_ of her Apparating in and prepares himself for her to tear him a new one for being a greater git than usual but it doesn’t come. He can see her legs as she moves over to the sink to wash away the burnt remains of whatever she had been cooking - they’re probably going to order in again.

Harry’s heart clenches at the realisation that he has ruined what was Hermione’s first effort in weeks to cook something herself. He doesn’t know why.

When long minutes have passed and he hears nothing but her breathing and the soft footfalls are she walks, Harry dares to venture a tentative, “Hermione?”

She stops moving. It hits him for the first time she probably hadn’t known he was there. When she walks over to stand above him, he peers at her sheepishly through his eyelashes with an expression he sincerely hopes conveys his desire to be forgiven for what he said to her. She merely waits, hands on her hips, eyes focused on him.

“Are you going to say something?” He eventually finds himself asking.

“Are you?” She challenges, crossing her arms over her chest.

“I’m... sorry?”

“Is that a question, Harry?”

Her voice is even, careful. It betrays no hint of what she’s feeling and Harry has no idea when Hermione learnt to be so careful. The realisation that to navigate the minefields that are him and Ron, set off at the wrong word, she must have _had_ to is unpleasantly chilling.

“N-no, ‘Mione, I’m sorry, I went off, I don’t know why I said those things to you–“

“What about the things you said to Malfoy?”

He blinks at her. The simmering anger that surges and pulses beneath his skin, in his veins and arteries, in the blood coursing through them, threatens to overwhelm him again. He suppresses it with effort, grits his teeth and bites out, “Not a word of what I said was a lie.”

“ _Every_ word you said was unfair,” she says, eyebrows drawn together, the corners of her lips turned down.

“That bastard deserved it, ‘Mione! Who does he think he is, sitting in my kitchen, drinking my tea?!” It’s getting harder to keep the rage beneath the surface and the look on Hermione’s face makes it clear he isn’t as successful as he thinks.

“ _I’m_ the one who brought him here. Moreover, you’re the one who spoke for him at the trials. You’re the one who saved him from the Fiendfyre, you’re the one who time and time again ensured the bloke didn’t die! And yet somehow–” she cuts herself off with an incredulous laugh.

“I was paying back a life debt,” he says, the words uncomfortably acrid in his mouth.

“Can you for _once,_ please, _please_ , just cut the shite, Harry? I’m dead tired of this.”

He can feel his dams break, his walls crash and the carefully pushed back vitriol rise. “ _You’re_ dead tired of this, ‘Mione? You’re the one? I just had to see Malfoy in Sirius’ house, sitting in my kitchen like he owns it and you’re the one who’s tired? I woke up this morning to blasted sunlight scorching my eyes out when all I wanted to do was sleep and you’re the one who’s tired? I have to deal with reliving every single thing every single night and you’re still the one–” he jabs at her chest, voice rising with every word, “–who’s fucking tired, ‘Mione?” He’s panting by the time he’s done.

“Move back, Harry.” Hermione’s voice is cold, ice cold. It drenches Harry in reality and he opens his mouth in shock and stumbles back hurriedly, the apology ready on his lips. He doesn’t know how he could have said any of that to her, demeaning her, when he knows, he knows what she has gone through, what she still goes through far too frequently.

She screams awake from nightmares where she’s pleading to Bellatrix to spare her, nightmares where her parents cannot remember who she is no matter what she tries. She has panic attacks when she sees too many galleons because it reminds her of the Geminio curse in the Gringotts vault.

He knows, _he knows_ , and yet.

After a few charged seconds of tense staring, Hermione spins on her heel and walks out of the kitchen without another word. Her fists are clenched and Harry isn’t used to her being this way, losing her patience, getting angry with him. They never do, Ron and Hermione. They're always patient, always calm, always rational. 

When he has the presence of mind to race up the stairs to the bedroom she shares with Ron, he finds her pushing a Weasley jumper into the beaded purse from which the expanding charm was never removed.

“Where are you going?” His voice is unexpectedly hoarse when it comes out and he cringes at how exhausted it sounds from the screaming he did downstairs.

“To the Burrow,” she says, quite matter of factly without looking at him.

“There are too many people there. You know that.”

“I’m sure Molly can find us some space.”

“You know it’s quieter here. More peaceful.”

“Yes.” She hasn’t looked up yet. At this point, she’s shoving things in blindly. Harry’s sure she’s going to tug the bedsheets off and put them in too if he doesn’t stop her.

“Mione, I–” His voice breaks. He doesn’t know how to say this without sounding ridiculously pathetic but he tries anyway. “Don’t leave me.”

She looks at him and her face softens slightly. The harsh lines of her clenched jaw smooth out and Harry sees she has creases on her forehead from frowning too much. She moves towards him slowly and when her hand brushes his cheek, he leans into the familiarity of her touch.

“Harry, we can’t live with a ghost.” He stares down at her, eyes wide. Her smile is sad. “You try living with yourself the way we have and you’ll realise that it’s harming you more than us.”

“What?”

She sighs. “All of your dead, Harry, they’re floating around you, inside you, like ghosts. And you, you’re in their realm more than you are in ours! We’re watching you waste away to nothing and we’re watching you be-become a ghost yourself and it’s, it’s so hard to just stand here and watch…” She trails off and Harry realises with horrified shock that she’s crying.

Without a second thought, he pulls her against his chest as she clings to the front of his t-shirt and sobs softly, her body shaking. It takes him a moment to understand that the dampness against his cheek are his own tears soaking into her bushy hair.

“‘Mione, please don’t cry, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” He continues to whisper apologies to her and rocks her slightly like he used to when Ron had left them in the Forest of Dean, the memories assaulting him, vivid and fresh, bringing on a fresh onslaught of tears. When she stops crying and pulls away, the way her face has crumpled makes his heart ache with regret.

He hates himself for doing this to her, _to his best friend_ his brain chimes in unhelpfully, and he pulls her into another embrace hoping fervently she understands. When she grips his shoulders tightly, he knows she does.

“Tell me how to make it up to you,” he beseeches when they’ve pulled apart finally, simply looking at each other.

This time her smile is more genuine. “If you had to make it up to us for each of your fits Harry, you wouldn’t have time to do much else.” These words have the opposite reaction from the one Hermione had clearly intended if her amusement is any indication. Harry feels ripped to shreds by the grief that replaces the rage he was feeling minutes ago. She seems to understand and her eyes widen. “No, no, I didn’t quite mean it like that. I just meant that we’ve seen you at your worst and we, we haven’t made you make it up to us ever, have we? You will anyway.” She covers his hands with hers and a quiet, reassuring confidence tinges her words, “When we least expect it.”

“Right.” He swallows past the lump in his throat. He doesn’t know why she bothers to look after him the way she does. It’s her and Ron holding him together, he knows. If they left, he would fall to pieces, come undone like parchment in the rain.

“It isn’t me you need to apologise to, Harry,” she says after a beat, looking straight into his eyes, letting him know he cannot escape it.

He shies away from her piercing, perceptive gaze and grimaces. Malfoy. As usual, making him more uncomfortable than he already is at the worst of times. “That miserable twat doesn’t deserve it.”

“Harry.”

“Alright, alright, I’ll see what I can do,” he concedes.

“Good.” Her smile is brighter than any he’s seen in a while.

“What project were you discussing with him anyway?” He asks finally, his interest piqued all of a sudden. He was so caught up in the utter wrongness of Malfoy’s presence in Grimmauld Place that he hadn’t even thought to consider why he might have been there at all.

The twinkle in Hermione’s eye is positively mischievous. “Why don’t you ask him yourself when you go over to say sorry?”

He groans, “Mione! I’m not going over to say I’m anything.”

She shrugs one shoulder, effortlessly. “You drove him away, Potter, you’re going to have to go find out yourself.”

“Hey,” he asks, hesitating, not quite wanting to ruin the slightly lighter turn the conversation has taken. “When you took him away- thanks for that, by the way- did he imply he wasn’t going to do- whatever? Because if that’s the case, I’ll tell him he doesn’t have anything to worry about, he-” Merlin, it almost hurts him to have a civil conversation about Malfoy, “-he seemed pretty interested in his own stuck-up way.”

Hermione punches him in the arm, “How long were you eavesdropping?” she asks, mock indignantly.

“Not long enough,” he says with a rueful smile. “Didn’t quite manage to hold back enough to hear anything of worth.”

She shakes her head fondly at him and he marvels at his choice in friends, even at eleven. This is his family. This is who he has left, even after everyone’s gone. The thought fuels him with a rush of warm affection that diffuses some of the tension he hadn’t even known he’d been carrying in his body.

“I want brunch. I’m starving,” he tells her with a pout.

Hermione laughs and says, “Either you order takeaway or you cook it, I’m not trying again.”

“C-cook with me?” he asks her, haltingly, unsure how she’ll take it. It’s a bit preposterous of him to assume she’ll say yes given his frankly disgusting behaviour as of late.

He pretends her surprised delight doesn’t make him feel more alive than he has in months.

* * *

 

 When Draco stumbles in through the Manor’s Floo, his forehead is beaded with sweat and his hands are trembling violently, jerking in the uncontrollable fashion that usually signifies he has gone far too long without a Calming Draught.

Granger had Apparated him to a backroom of the Leaky so he could Floo back without anyone seeing him, apologising profusely all the while. Draco didn’t think he could form the words to convey that he probably deserved all of the vitriol Potter threw at him anyway, his mouth was too parched, his throat too dry. She had grasped his shoulders and told him she would keep in touch, said she hoped he would consider the proposal she had, even… after.

He didn’t want to refuse her. She had been kind- extraordinarily so, kinder than he ever expected her to be, kinder than he deserved. But Potter, Potter with his explosive rage, his dangerous, fiery eyes, his accidental magic washing over Draco’s skin… it was too much. His fingers shake as he pulls open drawers full of medicinal potions, searching for the blue ones that always make his heartbeat settle down to a more manageable rhythm. Potter’s words still rattle around in his brain, casual words he threw around effortlessly like Azkaban and Daddy Malfoy and Aurors and Fiendfyre. Draco couldn’t imagine uttering them casually anymore. Every time they touched his tongue, every time they fell from his lips, they had to mean something, had to be worth something. Names held power, he had realised during the Dark Lord’s reign of terror.

Voldemort he could say in the darkness of his room at night with the curtains drawn around his bed and the blanket drawn up over his ears.

Voldemort, Voldemort, Voldemort. He would whisper it, trembling, tears streaming down his face, his heartbeat ricocheting off the walls of his frail, frail body. The name held power, tasting like bile on his tongue, his meagre dinner already in his throat.

He felt sick every single time he did it. But he kept doing it till the name lost meaning, till the word lost power. It felt like a reclamation.

It had to be worth something, something great, something like his sanity or someone else’s life or an apology he could not avoid. Otherwise, the words avoided him as much as he avoided them. His thoughts were images, memories, fantasies. Not words. Never words. The moment they turned to words, he had what Granger had called them. Panic attacks.

He tips a blue capped potion into his mouth and presses a hand to his chest. He feels his heart calm under the touch, the erratic beating steadying. He stays that way for a few moments, memorising the beat, the rhythm. It calms his mind, erases Potter’s words for a few moments, making him a blank canvas.

He thinks of his mother. Thinks of her in her French villa, creating tapestries and tending to the rose garden. When she had told him she was leaving, her hand clutching at the delicate pearls set against her delicate throat, he hadn’t even put up token resistance. He loved her but she needed more than an empty house with too many memories. Draco knows she wants him to live with her, wants him to move to France and do his Potions mastery there. A fresh start.

He won’t deny it holds appeal. The chance to up and leave, to wipe the slate clean and start over- who’s he trying to fool, not just appeal, it holds powerful allure. But Wiltshire has twined its charm into his bones and even when the hallways seem to echo with forgotten hisses of a dead snake, Malfoy Manor will never cease to be his home. There is ancestral magic woven into the walls, into the stones of the Manor. It is sentient, it pulses with life. When Voldemort had lived there, the core of the house, the magic in its foundations had closed itself up. It stood, towering and tall, beautiful in a horrifying way, but completely dead. Now it is slowly coming back to life, the East Wing lets in the sunlight, the floorboards squeak sometimes, wind rustles the papers on his desk. The charm of a new life is great and French has always been one of his favourite languages but the Manor coming back to life is an experience he will not miss for the world. His house is erasing the memories, the horrors one by one, shuddering and heaving, scrubbing its stones clean of the Dark Magic sticking to them. Draco feels an odd kinship with it every time he takes a bath and scrubs his Dark Mark till it is raw, red and puffy.

He had stayed shut in for three months after the trials. Potter had spoken for him and though Draco hadn’t been surprised (bloke did owe him a life debt after all), he had not been brave enough to even dream that many individuals shared Potter’s perspective about his war crimes being a result of underage pressure. So he stayed in and aimed futile cleaning charms at the dining table when he could stand to be in the room, for three whole months. The dining table. The living room. The ballroom. The chandeliers. The portraits. The fireplace. He had exhausted himself by casting cleaning charms and brightening charms and none of them seemed to do much good. After three months, his inner Pansy had put her hands on her hips and said fuck it. He set the dining table on fire and watched as it burned.

That day he went to town to buy groceries for the first time in his life. There had been Muggle money leftover from the pockets of the prisoners, none of the Death Eaters had seen use for it and it had remained in a drawer, locked away in an inconspicuous room of the big house. He had dug it up, taken a breath and come back with food he didn’t know how to cook.

The anxiety attacks are so frequent that Draco has forgotten how to separate them from his thoughts. Every time he thinks in words, every time he is conscious of his bend of mind, they spiral out of control. Initially he had been afraid but now, now he has learned to live with it. The shortness of breath, dizzying nausea, racing heartbeat, he greets them all like old friends. After all, he thinks slightly bitterly, it isn’t like he has _other_ visitors.

Now, as he sits on his bathroom floor, exhausted and drained, he lets himself think. The Calming Draught in his system will keep him from more anxiety for a few more hours and Draco finally has the luxury to just think. About Granger’s proposal, about his own reactions, about Potter.

The Pureblood and Muggle Culture Project. Granger, bless her do-gooder soul had the bright idea sometime last month that a cultural integration project for Purebloods and Muggleborns alike would be a good idea. Instead of having Muggleborns thrust into an unknown world at the age of eleven where half the population took objection to their existence, Granger proposed a plan for them to be introduced to the Wizarding World at the age of nine. The Registry of Magical Children at Hogwarts updated itself the moment a magical child was born and this meant that if there were records of eleven year old children, there were records for nine year olds too. For two years, Granger suggested, her impassioned voice gaining volume and speed as she spoke to Draco, innocent Muggleborn children would be given the opportunity to simply acquaint themselves with the Wizarding World. Explore Diagon Alley, be warned against Knockturn, go into Madame Malkin’s and the like. When they were eleven, they would perhaps be slightly less clueless about the rest of their lives. Even Draco had to admit the plan made sense. He knew that if it gained traction, if Granger succeeded in blowing this project up to the epic proportions she was envisioning, it would go against everything the Malfoys had ever stood for. But in the post-war climate, at least for a few more years when traditionalist Pureblood families would be forced to show their support for any scheme proposed by a member of the Golden Trio, especially one in support of Muggleborns, it stood a real chance. It was all fine and dandy, easy to understand, very humanitarian, very Granger-like. What Draco failed to understand was his relevance to this plan. Except the funding but Potter had boatloads of Galleons stacked up at Gringotts and would likely be more than willing to help. Granger surely didn’t just need Draco’s money?

But Granger’s idea didn’t stop there, he soon found out. She’d turned around to look at Draco, determination flickering across her features, spatula in hand and said, “But I have a plan for the Purebloods too.” Draco had merely raised an eyebrow, resting his cheek on his palm, letting his expression convey his skepticism. She had sighed and said that Pureblood children, even ones as accepting and open to change as the Weasleys were sheltered and hidden entirely from the Muggle world. They had no idea of its machinations, its developments, the way it worked. The magical community had in its efforts to stay hidden entirely isolated itself and Purebloods had borne the unfortunate brunt of this sheltered upbringing. “Telephones, Draco,” she had exclaimed when he had shrugged his shoulders. Completely unaware of what that was, he had shot Granger a blank look. She had thrown up her hands and said, “Exactly my point!”

Muggle advancements, Granger said, would help the Wizarding World. Telephones, medicine, university, social education, all of it. So for the two years of their lives that Muggleborns were to spend learning about magic, Purebloods would learn about everything that… wasn’t magic. Draco had wanted to laugh. He had wanted to point at Granger and exclaim, “You think Muggles can help us?”

But Granger was trying. And so should he.

This was when Granger dropped the bombshell. “I want you to spearhead the Pureblood integration portion.”

Draco felt his jaw drop. “What?” He choked out eventually, his voice a whisper.

Granger had looked him in the eye and said, “Partners, Malfoy. In this project. You help me out, you win over some of the archaic Pureblood society. You know more about Pureblood culture than anyone I know and I’m willing to bet you need a project with the time you have on your hands.”

“You can’t know whether I have time or not,” Draco had muttered and Granger had merely shaken her head with a smile.

“We try to keep ourselves busy, Malfoy. All of us. But at the end of the day, everything that has been our reality for the last few years is gone. I try to not have time but when I really think about it, I’m drifting. And I’m not willing to sit down and accept it. So will you put aside the last seven years of schooling and hatred for now and just work with me?”

Draco hadn’t known what to say so he had mutely nodded. Granger’s smile had widened as she said, “Good.”

“You’re forgetting something.”

“Oh?”

“I know nothing about Muggle culture.”

“I didn’t forget, Malfoy.” Her smile had turned positively mischievous. “If you agree, we’ll be each other’s first project.”

They had discussed it at length after Draco had gotten over his shock. It had been a pleasant if somewhat stilted discussion, given that they had skirted the War and Voldemort and Potter right up until…

Until Potter stormed in and ruined the surreal day Draco was having. Well, he’s learnt well enough by now that all good things come to an end.

If he’s being honest with himself (which he very rarely is), Granger’s idea is intriguing. Everything he had believed in had been shattered to pieces and his foundations shaken to the core. He might as well give Muggles a chance and see where it got him. The idea of doing something, anything to redeem himself that isn’t saying a stuttered I don’t know, I can’t be sure is unhealthily appealing these days. Something… something that will make not going to Azkaban worth it.

Draco lets his head thud back against the wall. He stares at the ceiling and fervently wishes, time and time again, completely and utterly uselessly, he had died rather than letting that damn Mark be branded onto his pale forearm. The delicate Malfoy complexion, the aristocratic look that he had once been so proud of makes it stand out darker, starker against alabaster skin. What he wouldn’t give he thinks to himself with a small, bitter smile, to have the skin Potter does, the darkened skin and calloused arms that Draco himself has mocked for years on end.


	3. No One To Tell Us No

Harry finds himself at the gates of Malfoy Manor three days after the Kitchen Debacle as he has taken to calling what went down between him and Malfoy in the kitchen of Grimmauld Place.

For three days he has had Malfoy on his mind, a continuous, uncomfortable nagging that something isn’t right. Every day Hermione greets him in the morning with a meaningful look in her eye and he returns it with a pleading one in his. She shakes her head looking slightly exasperated before she goes back to the plate of food before her and whatever book she has with her just then. Ron, who probably heard about the Kitchen Debacle from Hermione shoots him a sympathetic look each time before concentrating on his breakfast or rather what appears to be _inhaling_ his breakfast.

While Hermione and Harry spend most of their time in the house, Hermione occupied with reading and Harry with his… complete lack of anything else to do, Ron has been going over to Weasley’s Wizarding Wheezes regularly for a while now. George who had drowned himself in bottles of Firewhisky and occasionally Muggle vodka just after Fred’s death, has finally after months managed to come out of his alcohol induced stupor. The last two weeks he had spent trying to get the ruined shop up and in working order, alone. It can’t be easy, Harry knows, a constant reminder that his other half is not there, and that he isn’t there because he’s _dead_. So Ron, even with his nightmares and his occasional bouts of crippling misery decided to go and help George out in the shop.

 _If one brother can’t be there_ , Ron had said, a few glasses into the night, _another can, right? Even if it isn’t ever the same?_

Harry knew in that moment that Ron is stronger than he could ever be. Stronger than he has _ever_ been. Because while all Harry did was sleep his days away and drink the evenings, Ron is stepping up and taking responsibility, becoming the man the War torn world now expects him to be. Harry too is expected to be a man, more of one than Ron but every time he even thinks of getting out of the house, meeting people, talking about... anything, he feels bile rise to his throat.

Harry might have saved the Wizarding World but Ron, Hermione, Neville, Luna, Ginny, the Weasleys, they are reconstructing it. So Harry had raised the bottle of gin in Ron’s direction, as though toasting to what he said and taken a healthy swig of it while staring into the fireplace.

But after Hermione threatened to leave, after he saw her cry for him, fear wakes him up on time everyday. Fear that he will go down to see his house empty, Hermione and Ron’s things packed away and gone. His friends departed and him deserted. Fear that causes him to take the stairs two at a time every morning, fear that stops coursing through his veins only when he sees Hermione buttering her bread and jam stuck to Ron’s upper lip. Fear that doesn’t let him return to his room, that makes him subtly check on Hermione even when she is in hers. Since the Kitchen Debacle, the anger that dominated everything he did, everything he said and the innumerable, uncountable things he didn’t do or didn’t say has been replaced by bone-chilling fear. But he would choose fear over anger in a heartbeat if it meant his friends would stay. If it meant his eyes were open to what he was doing to them, how he was devastating them.

So even when he hates Malfoy, a little part of him grudgingly admits that perhaps his presence that day had been necessary, perhaps the outburst in the kitchen had set Harry’s life to rights. And for that, he has to thank Malfoy. Even if the thanks in this case may only be delivered as an apology. So today when Hermione looked at him expectantly, he nodded and she looked so pleased that before leaving, he had kissed her fondly on the cheek. It isn’t often one finds a friend whose expectations you meet and exceed with gestures as simple as… apologising. Even if it is to Malfoy, for everything Hermione and Ron have done for Harry for the past seven years of his life, it is an insignificant price to pay.

The gates rise tall and forbidding. Even without having reached the house, the unwelcome air of the property strikes Harry. After having the Horcrux in him removed, his sensitivity to dark magic has increased. The best way Harry could explain to Hermione what he was feeling when he couldn’t bring himself to enter the attic of Grimmauld was to tell her that it was something similar to being a recovering alcoholic in a bar. She had nodded and set to cleaning the attic with Ron and Harry had rushed back to his room, darkened it and stared at the ceiling for four hours. And now, the Manor, a stronghold of dark, ominous magic a few feet away is making Harry’s stomach churn in a way that makes him want to Apparate as far away from there as possible. But Hermione’s tear streaked face and her voice telling Harry she’s leaving flashes in his mind’s eye and he raises his hand to the gate hesitantly.

Before he touches it, he draws his wand to check for underlying hexes meant to set off on intruders, sure that at least a couple nasty ones are lying in wait for him. He remembers an exclusive in the Daily Prophet on Voldemort’s Headquarters, details about the Manor that had apparently fascinated the people, something about the gates contorting into a face that asked questions, about select people being able to pass through the wrought iron gates like they were smoke. When none of that happens, Harry cautiously casts a Detection Charm on the gates. But when he swipes the wand through the air, only a red shower of sparks erupt and die away.

There's nothing here. 

“Alohomora,” he whispers at the lock, wary of touching anything with his hand. The heavy bolt on the inside slides aside soundlessly and the gate swings open with a slight creaking noise. Wand held at the ready, he steps in through the gate and surveys the area. There are no house elves, Harry knows. All of them have been seized by the Ministry and employed in the Ministry of Magic itself. Narcissa Malfoy had left for France after being acquitted of all War crimes and Lucius Malfoy was rotting in Azkaban with a life-imprisonment sentence with no possibility of parole. And so, Harry thinks, the knowledge making him slightly uneasy, Malfoy should be here, completely alone. The Manor is a tall imposing tower of stone and for one moment, sympathy courses through him. Grimmauld is smaller than the Manor and even then, when neither Hermione nor Ron are in, Harry feels alone in a space too big to be safe, to be comfortable. To be alone in what used to be Voldemort’s… house, it can’t be easy.

In a minute, he’s scowling at himself. First, he misses Voldemort. Then, he estranges his friends. Now, he’s sympathising with Malfoy. Harry has always known something was deeply wrong with him but in the absence of anything else occupying his mind the way the Dark Lord did for the last seven years, it is becoming more apparent than he would like. Malfoy, he reminds himself, called Hermione a Mudblood every time he got the chance. Malfoy, who had signed up to be a Death Eater when he knew what they could do, what they had already done. Malfoy, who even without the ugly arm tattoo is a snide, evil, slimy bastard without anything creditable about him. For a minute Harry stops in his tracks just to remind himself why he has to apologise to Malfoy of all people for reminding him of some cold, hard truths.

Hermione, he tells himself. Hermione wants him to.

When he approaches the door and knocks on it, he doesn’t quite know what to expect. He knows Malfoy is going to open it but the thought of snobbish Malfoy doing quotidian things like opening doors makes Harry first pause and then feel uncomfortable. He knows that the world has changed, turned upside down on its head around him but Malfoy doing what a butler should or a house elf probably would in any other situation will make him face truths he wants to hide from. But when the door creaks open finally, jarring him out of his thoughts, Harry’s jaw hangs open in shock.

The shock of seeing Malfoy actually opening the door is completely masked by the shock of taking in his appearance. Harry has no other word for it- all he can think of is that Malfoy appears _emaciated_. He has no shirt on, only a pair of casual pants that hang low on his hips like they’re about to fall off. No slippers. When he glances back up at Malfoy’s face, he notices the way his cheekbones stick out and his sunken eyes have settled somewhere close to the back of his skull. Malfoy has always been unnaturally… pointy but right now, his body seems to be only angles, nothing else. The skin beneath his eyes is a bruised purple and hangs in an ugly, unseemly way. His hair is a dishevelled, lanky mess, his skin so pale that his blond eyebrows seem too dark. He looks like a ghost and Harry takes a minute to absorb the fact that Malfoy, slick haired, snide, smirky Malfoy is even capable of looking like the apparition that stands before him. If he hadn’t known Malfoy was alone in this house, he would have probably thought this was someone else. If he hadn’t taken a moment to ascertain that this is actually Draco Malfoy (which is obvious after a careful look), Harry would have thought it was a ghost of some Malfoy ancestor.

While Harry stares at him, Malfoy stares right back. He doesn’t seem surprised, he doesn’t seem afraid. He just stares, oddly blank before giving himself a slight shake. When he talks, his voice is raspy, breaking on the syllables, “Am I hallucinating?”

Harry doesn’t have an answer for that which will make sense or be believable to someone who thinks they are hallucinating so he goes with a simple but firm, “No.”

“How are you even here?” Malfoy asks, brows furrowing as though Harry is a complicated puzzle he can’t quite figure out.

“I- um- I Apparated,” he says, gesturing to the gate. Malfoy shakes his head and murmurs, “The gate has an intention charm on it. It’s not supposed to let in– I put it there. Is my magic failing?”

“The gate let me in,” Harry says, confused.

“Where are the Aurors?” Malfoy asks, focusing somewhere over Harry’s left shoulder, his gaze searching.

“The Aurors? Malfoy, what on earth are you talking about?”

Malfoy meets his eye and smiles. “There’s no need for the games, Potter. If I’m not hallucinating, then I’ll come with you willingly.”

Harry has never been more confused in his life. “What the bloody hell are you saying?” He peers into Malfoy’s eyes, trying to discern if the pupils are blown. “Have you been drinking?”

Malfoy sighs, a tired sound. “The Aurors, Potter, where are they?”

“Why do you even think there would be Aurors with me, Malfoy?” Harry asks, lowering the wand into his pocket. With the state Malfoy is in, Harry doubts he would be able to cast any spells at all, and definitely nothing offensive.

Malfoy looks spent. “Potter, you’ve insulted me about a lot of things. My family, my pride, my criminal activities but please, don’t insult my intelligence. For one, there is no reason for you to turn up here unless it is to drag me back to wherever it is you want me and for another, the last time I saw you, you were a minute away from calling them into your own home.”

Now Harry understands. Memories of himself screaming, tell me why I shouldn’t call the Aurors right now with a wand pointed at Malfoy’s face assault him and he winces unintentionally. He raises his hands, slowly, deliberately, making sure Malfoy is following their movement. He places them, palm forwards, near his shoulders and says, “There are no Aurors with me. There isn’t even a wand in my hands. I’m not here to take you away anywhere. Are you listening to me?”

Malfoy’s gaze is cautious. “The gate let you in,” he murmurs softly. “The intention charm… it didn’t fail?”

“What is that charm supposed to do?” Harry asks him.

“If you, if you have any intention of bringing harm to the House of Malfoy, to me, it, it shouldn’t let you in. It, it isn’t like other Malfoy curses or hexes. It’s simple… just a little charm to keep out unwelcome intruders.” He drags his gaze up and down, his eyes almost blank but with something flickering underneath, “Which I would have thought the Manor would think you are.” He pauses for a minute and gets a faraway look in his eye. “Unless my magic’s failing. Do you think my magic’s failing?”

Harry is mute. He can’t help it, he can’t speak. Malfoy is so distinctly unlike himself right now that Harry thinks he needs to find a suitable bush to puke in. Instead, he reigns it in, meet’s Malfoy’s suspicious eyes and says, “No, I don’t think your magic is failing. I think your house trusts me.”

Malfoy just tilts his head to one side. Finally he shrugs and says, “Do you want to come in?”

Harry nods and Malfoy moves away from the doorway, further into the house. When Harry steps in, he turns around to look at Harry, confusion etched across his features. “If the Aurors aren’t here, why are you?” His eyes widen suddenly, “Are you going to kill me? Finish the job yourself?” His voice breaks. Harry has felt fear and anger and panic but right at this moment he feels nothing but wonder. Something is so wrong here that it is palpable in the air– Malfoy needs his assurance that Harry isn’t going to kill him. “I’m not here to kill you Malfoy,” he says. “I’m here to apologise.”

* * *

 

“I’m not here to kill you Malfoy,” Potter says. He shifts on his feet before looking up and saying, “I’m here to apologise.”

This, Draco thinks, this is the moment to laugh hysterically. This is the moment to tell himself that the side effects of too many Calming Draughts are settling in and he is definitely hallucinating even if his hallucinations tell him they aren’t hallucinations. Hallucinations aren’t supposed to know who they are anyway. They’re not supposed to let you know either. So he can’t trust what his hallucinations tell him. Because unless he’s hallucinating, Potter is standing in front of him, wand holstered away, saying he is in Malfoy Manor to apologise and that, that is a stretch even for someone who likes stretching the truth to its furthest limits the way Draco does.

“You’re a hallucination,” Draco tells Potter firmly. “Even if you aren’t blurry around the edges, even if you seem as real as you did three days ago, you’re definitely not real. You’re not standing in front of me right now.”

Potter sighs, an exasperated exhalation of air. “What do I do to tell you I’m not a figment of your imagination, Malfoy?”

“I’m not sure,” Draco tells him. “I doubt there is anything you could do since I’m pretty sure I’m right.”

“Can I please sit down somewhere?” Potter asks Draco, an edge of frustration creeping into his voice.

Draco wordlessly moves further into the house, feet automatically avoiding the living room and moving further in till they reach the kitchen. Potter takes in his surroundings and says, “I don’t see chairs, Malfoy.”

“There aren’t any. Sit on the floor.”

Potter’s eyebrows shoot up before his expression hardens. “Special treatment for me?”

“No,” Draco tells him, unsure why he feels he owes explanations to a hallucination. Maybe he’s hallucinating because he needs to explain these things, say them out loud before they fester within him and kill him slowly from the inside with the pressure of not being able to get out. “I can’t sit in those rooms. They’re places where Vol-Voldemort or Bellatrix did and I can’t sit there. I can clean, I can perform magic, I can throw out furniture or try to get rid of Dark Magic but I can’t, I can’t sit there. Spend time there. If you want to, go ahead, but you’ll be alone.”

“Right,” Potter says, voice oddly faint. “Right.” After a moment he says, “I think I’m good here.”

I’ve gone mad, Draco thinks. Finally.

“No, you haven’t. I’m here, I’m real and I understand why you would think I’m not but I am.” Potter says these words and Draco realises he must have spoken out loud. He doesn’t even have control over his speech now. Brilliant.

His head thuds back against the kitchen cabinets, a pose he has perfected in the months he has spent sitting in his kitchen, either too exhausted to work or too relaxed from the Calming Draughts to stand and not fall on his face. He knows from experience that a Calming Draught does not act as a numbing charm and the pain felt when on it is still very, very real. That’s when he hears Potter’s breath hitch.

“Is that a Potion bottle, Malfoy?” He asks, tone sharp. Draco opens his eyes to look at Potter and sees him staring at the spot where the bottle of Calming Draught had rolled away to when Draco had taken the last drink from it.

“Yes,” Draco replies, weary. He can’t defend his decisions to Potter now. Calming Draught is legal, if frowned upon by Healers when taken in incorrect dosages. Potter is no Healer, the last time Draco checked.

“What Potion?”

“Calming Draught.”

“Bottle’s almost empty. How long have you been taking it?”

“Opened that one the day before yesterday,” he says without opening his eyes which have fallen shut again. He isn’t sleepy but the light hurts.

He hears noises to his right and then Potter’s indignant voice carries out, “What?!”

“What?” Draco asks, voice much quieter than Potter’s.

“That’s the dosage for a fortnight. You’ve finished it in two days?”

This time Draco does open his eyes. Potter’s eyes are fixed on him, hardened and challenging, his lips set in an ugly line. “Yes,” he says.

“Why?”

First Draco thinks of simply not answering. Or perhaps lying and saying he dropped the rest of it. But then he remembers that this is Potter and more likely than not, he’s sitting on the precariously brittle fence that stops Potter from calling the Aurors on him. Maybe they’re waiting outside the gates for a signal from Potter. Maybe Potter’s here to dismantle whatever protective spells keep them from entering. Maybe, maybe… his thought trail off. This is the effect of having panic attacks on the Draught. His thoughts go haywire with or without the damn thing but on the potion, his heart rate refuses to pick up, his mouth doesn’t go dry. He remembers some of Potions theory, knows that the Potion’s affects all the vital organs except the brain. Snape had been trying to work on a variation affecting the brain too before… Before.

“I built up a tolerance,” he explains to Potter. “I’ve been taking it regularly for so long that now it just… doesn’t work. I need a third of the bottle every day or I…” He looks up to see Potter still staring. His expression isn’t quite as hard, more curious than anything. If Draco allows himself, he sees traces of sympathy somewhere. “I have panic attacks. Granger called them that.”

The mention of Granger seems to shake Potter up a bit. He seems to remember something, probably why he’s here at all.

“I,” he begins hesitantly, “I owe you an apology, Malfoy.” When Draco says nothing in response, he seems to stumble over his words, “That day, I was just so angry, I didn’t expect you to be there, I just thought that, that you shouldn’t be. I’ve been so angry these past few days, I said some things…” He pauses here and then finishes, “that I had no right to say.”

Draco’s eyes fly open at that. He had expected, I shouldn’t have or I didn’t mean to but Potter is saying he didn’t have a right when in fact, he did. It was his house and he had the right to throw out unwanted visitors. Draco didn’t expect that. He opens his mouth to speak but Potter seems to be soldiering on, “I know Hermione must have had a reason, she obviously weighed bringing you somewhere and honestly, Grimmauld is as much her home as it is mine so there isn’t a reason why she shouldn’t be able to bring in whomever she pleases but I was…”

“Angry,” Draco completes. Potter nods, an embarrassed, quiet bob of his head and he fixes his gaze back at the floor. Then he looks back up at Draco and his eyes are so vibrantly green behind those stupid glasses. “Mione said something about a project. And I can’t help but think if I hadn’t been so, so, awful you’d have gone along with it. If you were, Malfoy, don’t reject her because of what I said. She doesn’t hold those views, doesn’t think you belong in Azkaban or whatever else I said at that time.”

“But you have those views?”

“I spoke at your trial, Malfoy. If I wanted you in Azkaban, I’d have let them take you.”

Neither of them say anything for a while. The silence isn’t tense but it isn’t comfortable. Something’s unsettled in the air.

“How long have you been taking them?”

“What?” Draco asks, confused.

“The Draughts,” Potter says. “Calming Draughts.”

“Oh, those. I– since sixth year. That’s why the built up tolerance got to this point.” He hears the sharp intake of breath, knows they’re both thinking of the same thing at the mention of sixth year. Subconsciously, Draco touches the scar on his chest, or rather where it is supposed to be under the glamour. He keeps his all his scars under glamours, the Manor has too many polished surfaces. Of all the things he wants to see, his mangled skin isn’t one of them.

“You know it is dangerous?” Potter asks, voice lower than it has been.

Draco shrugs. “I’m not dead yet.”

“That isn’t funny, Malfoy.”

“Who said I was joking?”

They lapse into steady silence after that. The effects of the Draught are already wearing off, the slight fog lifting gradually. He looks at Potter out of the corner of his eye, half expecting him to become wispy and fade away but he remains right there, in Draco’s view. Not a hallucination, Draco thinks. Then with horror he thinks again, not a hallucination. Potter is in his kitchen. And Draco has been pouring out his heart to him. He clutches at his wrist with as much force as possible, his knuckles stark against his skin, trying to calm himself down.

“Anything else, Potter?” He asks, proud that his voice isn’t breaking. Potter looks at him and appears totally lost for a moment before he comprehends what Draco is saying. He shakes his head.

“No. But please, please don’t disregard what Hermione was telling you just because I said what I did.” Then he seems to rethink his words before he asks, “What was she talking about anyway?”

Draco shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk to Potter anymore. He needs Potter out of his house. As soon as possible. “She’s your friend, ask her.”

Potter heaves an annoyed sigh. “And here I was thinking you weren’t a git for fifteen minutes.”

Draco doesn’t look at him when he snaps out, “Anything else you require, Potter?”

Potter gets up off the floor and stands there beside him for a beat. When Draco doesn’t say anything more, he turns and walks away without another word.


	4. Or Where To Go

When Harry reaches Grimmauld, his mind is whirling. He knows more about Malfoy in the fifteen minutes he spent talking to him sitting on the floor of his kitchen than he did in the entirety of the past seven years that he has known the prat. Despite that, Harry has no idea what to make of what he knows. Malfoy looked so, so… broken. He looks the way Harry feels all the time, as though someone has taken a chisel and carved out the will to live from his body and left behind an empty shell. It angers him, it frustrates him, looking in a mirror and not seeing himself. Not seeing the boy who fought for the good of the world but instead seeing the man broken by a War against a raving lunatic. But Malfoy doesn’t seem to have even have the anger left in him. 

He thinks back to the Kitchen Debacle (though he doesn’t know if he should still call it that after what he saw in Malfoy’s kitchen today, if anything, a greater debacle by any measuring standards). The memory is unclear, all he recalls is a haze of uncertain emotions roiling within him and Malfoy’s pale, terrified face when he had jabbed the wand right in it. But he tries his hardest to look beyond all of that to remember if Malfoy had looked quite so awful then. No, he thinks. Malfoy had definitely been thinner but the spent creature Harry had just met was not what he had seen in his kitchen. A twinge of guilt shoots down his spine and pools in his gut. Did his outburst do that to Malfoy? Did his outburst push Malfoy into drinking one third of a bottle of Calming Draught per day? No, he tells himself. That sort of deterioration isn’t possible in three days. So how had Malfoy looked the way he had when he was at Grimmauld? 

He remembers the way Malfoy had resigned himself to thinking Harry had brought the Aurors. The way he seemed too tired to put up a fight. I’ll go willingly, he had said, looking for all the world like a battered prisoner on the run, too tired to do it anymore. It isn’t something Harry can even imagine Draco Malfoy saying under normal circumstances. The fight has gone out of him and Harry doesn’t understand why he feels so dismayed by it. Common decency, he tells himself. Common decency that dictates when you see someone look as helpless as Malfoy did today, you feel bad about it. 

He thinks he should go back to his room. Sleep it off. Maybe he’ll wake up tomorrow knowing he has done his part and owes the prat nothing. But when he reaches the door of his room, his hand hesitates on the doorknob. Instead of entering, he turns around and walks over to Hermione and Ron’s room down the corridor. Ron is probably still at George’s but Hermione is probably in. He knocks softly and Hermione’s come in! rings out loudly in the silence of the house. At first she appears surprised to see him and Harry’s heart aches with the reminder of how far he has pushed away his friends. But then she smiles, the quick, bright Hermione smile that puts him at ease instantly. 

“I was wondering if I could talk to you for a minute?” He asks her. 

“Of course!” She responds immediately. 

“I went to see Malfoy today.” 

“I know.” She sounds incredibly pleased, almost proud. 

“To apologise.” 

“I was hoping it wasn’t to start a fight.” She has a smirk on her face but there’s an undercurrent of concern. 

“No, no, I didn’t do anything… it just, it sort of didn’t go quite as well as I had hoped,” he tells her, unsure how to convey that today’s visit has unsettled him to the very core. 

“Did something happen? I knew I should have gone with you, I just thought you’d do better if I wasn’t there what with your male ego and all–” 

“No,” Harry cuts her off, knowing she is going to completely misconstrue the situation if he lets her go on. “I apologised. I told him to keep working with you if he wanted to. It’s just…” 

She leans forward, steepling her fingers under her chin, an open invitation for him to continue. 

“Did he look starved when he was here?” Harry settles on asking her. She frowns. 

“No. A bit thin of course but that’s to be expected. Why?” 

“He looked, he looked like a bloody corpse today, ‘Mione!” Harry bursts out. Hermione’s eyes widen. “He, he wasn’t wearing a shirt and he was talking like he was on Muggle drugs… no filter, completely out of it, bloody hell, if I hadn’t known he was the only one on the property, I would have thought he was someone else!” 

Hermione keeps staring so Harry says quietly, “He looked like he hadn’t eaten anything in a month. And he’s been taking Calming Draughts too often, he finishes a third of a bottle per day, ‘Mione, per day.” 

Hermione looks to be at a complete loss. It is such an unexpected and unfamiliar expression on her face that Harry feels helplessness tugging at him. “It, it wasn’t okay. And I know I should be happy or maybe at least satisfied that he’s, he’s suffering, it’s what I thought I wanted to see but…” he trails off, unsure of how he feels about the situation. Dismay, regret, anger, frustration. Guilt. No joy. No satisfaction. 

“I… I don’t know what to say,” Hermione starts. “He didn’t look any of those things when he was here. He was attentive when we were talking and he had inputs occasionally and I…” she stops here. “He did have a panic attack at the beginning but I thought that was just common PTSD and anxiety. But it’s probably more extensive than we understand.” 

The term PTSD isn’t foreign to Harry but he has forgotten what it means. When he asks Hermione, she smiles sadly and says, “Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, Harry. The Mungo’s Mind Healer said you had it, remember?” 

Harry doesn’t. But he can make sense of the string of words in context and he doesn’t want to dwell on them. Uncomfortable truths. Too many uncomfortable truths. 

“Harry,” Hermione says after a moment, “I’m proud of you.” 

Harry startles. “What?” he asks her incredulously. 

“I’m proud of you,” she says. “You said you didn’t feel happy or satisfied when you saw him like that and you reminded me that you’re still–” she pauses, searching for a word and settles on, “–our Harry. Mine and Ron’s.” 

He can’t bear to look at her so he buries his face in his hands. “How’d it get to this, Mione?” He asks her, voice muffled. He feels the warmth of her hand on his shoulder, a comforting touch that he has missed for a long, long time. 

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “But we’ll figure it out.” 

“I didn’t fight for this,” he says, voice coming out hoarse and heavy with suppressed tears. “I didn’t fight for everyone involved to just keep living with the aftereffects and the shocks and horrors.” He stares bleakly at her, feeling exhausted and weak. “What was the point in getting rid of him if he keeps living on in our minds? I was supposed to save the world, Mione but all I did was, was…” he can’t go on, voice breaking into sobs. Hermione pulls him to her, close and safe. She smells of dust and old books and the familiar tightness of her arms allows Harry to let go. 

And he does. 

He cries, he cries the frustration he feels at not feeling completely settled as who he used to be, cries because he used to feel more himself as a Dursley house elf than he does now, cries because Ron has to take Fred’s place in the shop, cries because he remembers Hermione screaming at night and Ron with a blank look on his face that indicates he has completely dissociated. Cries because Molly doesn’t smile as widely as she used to, the strain around her mouth more prominent now, cries because Ginny couldn’t stay here after the War and left for Durmstrang to complete her NEWTS, cries because he misses her. He keeps crying and then he cries because Malfoy isn’t supposed to be like this. Malfoy was a constant, a hated but necessary constant. If nothing, he could count on Malfoy to always despise him, to loathe him, to throw hexes at the sight of him. Instead Malfoy opens doors shirtless and looking like he has been living on the streets without a galleon to his name to buy some food. The world is spinning out of Harry’s control and all he can do right now is clutch on to Hermione’s warm woollen sweater, be thankful for the warmth she has encased him in and cry his heart out. 

When he finds it in him to be able to break away, a bone deep exhaustion clings to him. It’s only noon but his body isn’t quite attuned to being awake at this time. 

“Is it okay if I sleep here for some time?” He asks Hermione. She says nothing but simply picks up her book in one hand and pats her thigh with the other. Harry smiles, settling his head on her lap. Before he can thank her, his eyes are closing and he’s drifting off. 

When he wakes up again, he notices Hermione’s head is resting against the headboard and her eyes are closed. The even, steady breathing indicates she has gone to sleep too and it is only then that Harry notices the weight on his stomach. He cranes his neck carefully to avoid too much jostling and can’t help but smile fondly at the sight before him. Ron’s head is on his stomach, one hand splayed across Harry’s leg and the other on his own chest. His mouth is open and he is mumbling something under his breath incomprehensibly. But the air is peaceful and quiet and Harry, even though not particularly sleepy anymore, closes his eyes and thanks Merlin for the fact that Ron and Hermione are the ones he chose. It’s in moments like these he understands how important it was that they chose him right back. 

 

Two days after Potter’s visit (which he still can’t trust himself to classify as illusion or reality- which is unfortunate given that he sent Granger a letter of appreciation already), Draco receives an owl. It’s a Ministry owl which shoots him frequent disapproving glares and reminds Draco uncomfortably of great-aunt Alexandra. He hands it a couple treats and with one last look laced with disgust, it takes the treat, hoots loudly enough to startle Draco and disappears before he has had time to open the envelope and read the contents, forget composing a reply. 

It’s a letter from Granger– a typical, brusque missive that might be expected of the woman. 

Draco (I’m going to call you Draco because if we are to put being juvenile behind us, we must let some barriers take a backseat), 

If you have the time, I would love to go over the PMC project with you and some preliminary outlines for our proposal to the Wizengamot. The quicker we start, the more hope we have of a sympathetic Council. I would suggest meeting at Grimmauld Place but after last time, you might be averse to it. If you’re available, please do suggest a viable location and we can meet.

Harry and Ron send their regards, 

Best wishes, Hermione. 

It is polite, simple, to the point. He snorts inelegantly at the bit where Potter and Weasley send regards, obvious sarcasm on Granger’s part. A bit demanding overall, but he has known the woman for a while and she is nothing if not demanding. He pens a quick reply, 

Granger (I do not mean to be offensive but Hermione seems unnatural and I shall stick to Granger and write it with utmost affection), 

I have the time as you very well know. I agree that haste cannot hurt when it comes to formulating the proposal and would like to go over your plans with you if you so desire. I wish I could suggest an alternative but as I am unwelcome in most spaces and you are likely not going to agree to a meeting in the Manor’s kitchen or my bedroom, Grimmauld Place it will have to be. Beggars can’t be choosers.Thank you for your time. 

My regards to the trio,  
Draco L. Malfoy

He whistles for Archimedes who comes sweeping in within a few seconds. He must have been out hunting in the backyard. He ties the letter to his leg and sends him off before returning to his task of cleaning out the East Wing bedrooms. 

These bedrooms are not the ones where the Death Eaters lived or where Muggles were tortured. In fact, when the Death Eaters had come to the Manor, Narcissa had shut off the East Wing entirely. With everything that has happened within its walls, the Manor is now known as Voldemort’s Headquarters but sometimes everyone, including Draco forgets how large the damn thing really is, how much of it wasn’t the abode of Death Eaters or Voldemort but instead remnants of the proud history the Malfoy lineage has always boasted. The East Wing, though extremely large and practically half of the house, was left untouched by the carnage that took place here, not because of Narcissa’s careful locking charms but because it simply wasn’t required. What was already there was enough for the thirty Death Eaters of Voldemort’s inner circle, chosen carefully to live with him. Thugs like Crabbe Sr. and Goyle Sr., beasts like Greyback, lunatics like Bellatrix and Rodolphus and crafty villains like Rabastan, Macnair and Nott. Draco shudders at the memories of some of those who had touched the walls of his house, slept in the beds, eaten at the tables. 

The East Wing has not suffered anything save neglect. It is dusty and the walls are peeling in places from the lack of upkeep. The paintings have abandoned their frames to either go live in obscure frames in the more habitable part of the house or to other Malfoy properties in the Continent. Some, Draco knows, have gone to the property in France where his mother is staying. So Draco casts Cleaning Charms and Brightening Charms, brings in a broom and focuses on dusting rather than the fact that he is finding doing a House-Elf’s chores therapeutic. But it does not have negative memories attached to it of Greyback tearing raw flesh with his claws or the stench of death. 

He’s in his parent’s old bedroom, aiming spells at the ivy that has grown over the windows when there’s a tapping on it. It’s another owl, one so small that it is probably an owlet. He lets it in and it flies around the room, moving around extremely fast before it settles on his shoulder and nips his ear playfully. Confused, he unties the letter attached to its leg and discovers another letter from Granger. 

Draco, 

When would be an ideal time for you? Today evening would be good if you could make it, but if not, let me know what time is convenient. The address is 12, Grimmauld Place. The house is under Fidelius so be careful with that knowledge. 

P.S. Harry and Ron really did send their regards in the morning but right now there’s just Harry and he made a face. 

Best wishes, Hermione. 

An involuntary smile tugs at his lips at the mention of Potter making a face. His own urge to smile confuses Draco and so he turns the letter over onto its blank side and writes a quick, Today’s fine, on it and reattaches it to the owl’s leg. It flies around Draco’s head a couple more times before pecking him affectionately upside the head and flies back out of the window. 

He takes a long, deep breath. He just signed up to meet Granger on short notice in Potter’s house which is placed under a Fidelius Charm. Draco has always known something was deeply wrong with him but in the absence of anything else occupying his mind the way the Dark Lord did, it is becoming more apparent than he would like.


	5. Or Say We're Only Dreaming

When Hermione tells him about the Pureblood and Muggle Culture Project, Harry stares at her for a few long moments before whispering, “That’s brilliant.” Hermione smiles and says, “I know,” and Harry feels slightly stupid for being an absolute knob about it in the kitchen the other day. 

“Not just the fact that you want Pureblood and Muggle cultural exchanges. The fact that you thought Malfoy would be a good candidate, that’s brilliant too. I mean, I wouldn’t have thought that prick would agree but if he does, he is a rather perfect candidate.” 

“I know.” 

“I almost ruined it for you!” he gasps.

“I know.” 

He had put his head in his hands for a few minutes before shaking his head and looking back at her. “What are you going to do if he turns it down?” 

She looks pensive for a minute and then says, ‘There’s always Ron?” 

They look at each other long and hard for a couple of minutes before bursting into laughter. 

“Not, not Ron,” Harry manages between gasps. 

“Not Ron,” Hermione agrees, wiping her eyes. 

After that, Harry and Hermione had bounced around a couple ideas, which appliances to introduce to Purebloods, which parts of Diagon Alley to take Muggleborns to at first. 

“Did you hear from Malfoy at all? After what happened?” 

“He sent a cryptic note to me the day after you went, the gist of which I figured was that he appreciated me sending you to him even though he still thinks you’re a right pain. There was something about hallucinations that I didn’t understand.” 

Harry understands exactly what he meant by hallucinations. 

“You should schedule a meeting with him or something. Figure out where he stands,” he tells her. 

“I thought of doing that. I’ll get to it sometime soon.” 

“Why not today? Do you have something to do today?” He casts a pointed glance at the way she is sprawled all over the couch, her legs over the arm and her head on his lap. 

Hermione gives him a look that causes him to pause in the stroking of her hair. “For someone who wanted Malfoy thrown out of the house less than a week ago, you sure are pretty insistent on me meeting him.”

Harry doesn’t know how to tell her that if the project doesn’t work out between Malfoy and Hermione, he will feel guilty about it for the rest of his life. It is indeed a brilliant idea, he wasn’t saying that just to placate his best friend. It deserves a good shot in front of the Wizengamot. It might stop some of the hatred and prejudice that caused the damn War and he’ll be damned if his hatred and prejudice is going to stand in the way of it. 

“Just want it to work, s’all,” he mumbles. 

“You do know that more likely than not, the meeting, if it happens will be held in Grimmauld Place, don’t you?” She asks, voice tinged with concern. “You’ll be up to facing Malfoy, won’t you?” 

He smiles at her. “I’ll do my best. And if I can’t,” he stops, resting his chin on his palm, pretending to think, “I’ll be in my room, making no noise and pretending I don’t exist.” He laughs a little to himself and at Hermione’s confused, blank look, says, “Inside joke.” 

“With yourself?” 

Harry flushes. Hermione giggles and pats him on the head before murmuring, “One day, Harry, I have hope you’ll grow up.” 

He swats at her hand and she laughs. She’s been laughing a lot more, Harry notices. Ever since he started making an effort, she’s been smiling brighter and laughing more. Ron too has been talking more, talking about George, making inappropriate jokes. It twinges but Harry knows they had been walking on fragile eggshells around him for a while now. So he powers through the exhaustion that comes with the effort, the anger that makes him see red, stays quiet even when he wants to be alone and focuses on the smile Hermione is throwing his way. He might want to sleep it off in his room but if he does that, when he wakes up, they won’t be here. And he can’t bring himself to deal with that. 

“Why don’t you ask him to come by?” 

She hesitates before saying, “I need an owl.” 

Another twinge in Harry’s chest. Hedwig. 

“How many times have I told you that you and Ron should go buy an owl for yourselves?” He asks her, reminding himself to power through the pain, again. His nails are digging into his palm. 

“I’ll ask Ron to send Pig.” 

She fire-calls the shop and over the crackling connection they find out Pig is out. “There’s a Ministry owl George has hired for a few days, should I send him?” 

Hermione agrees and after fifteen minutes, there’s a sharp rapping on the window, a large Ministry tawny looking rather disgruntled sitting on the ledge.

An hour after she sends out the letter, a huge eagle owl swoops in through the open window and sits on the mantelpiece. Harry recognises it as Malfoy’s owl, the one that arrived every morning in Hogwarts with parcels and packages for the prat. Archimedes, he recalls. A pretentious name for a pretentious owl belonging to a pretentious bastard from a pretentious family living in a pretentious Manor. Fitting indeed. 

A couple more letters back and forth and Hermione tells him Malfoy agreed to come by today. So Harry smiles, says, “That’s fantastic!” and pretends to not be losing his goddamn mind at the thought of facing Malfoy after the last time they saw each other. Malfoy was a man looking like a ghost and to the best of his knowledge, Harry had been an elaborate hallucination. Today evening, Harry thinks with a sigh, will be absolutely fantastic. 

 

Malfoy men have dragon heartstrings, the voice in Draco’s head that sounds exactly like Lucius tells him when he stares down at his trembling fingers. It is almost six in the evening and Draco has thrown on navy robes and brushed his fingers through his hair. He thought of taking a shower but dismissed the idea as unnecessary and requiring too much effort in the afternoon. He regrets that now, grimacing as his fingers drag through matted, stringy hair. He’s in dire need of a bath, he hasn’t taken one since… he can’t even remember the last time. But the only way to look presentable in company will be to salvage whatever is left of his hair for now and for that he… needs to look in a mirror. 

Draco hasn’t looked in a mirror for a long, long time. He’s been throwing on a glamour over himself, one customised to look exactly the way he used to before the War and given that he steps out into the public once a month or less, he doesn’t exactly need it often enough for people to notice the edges of his appearance winking in and out of focus. The Muggles don’t have the capability to notice and everyone else is so very determined to not look at him and pretend he doesn’t exist that even if they do, they move on. The only person to have seen him without the glamour is Potter because Potter has the unfortunate tendency to see Draco at his most vulnerable without even trying to but he has accepted that when it comes to Potter, his dignity must take a ride around town on a second hand broom. 

Malfoy men have dragon heartstrings. Clenching his jaw, he pulls the white cover away from he ornate mirror in the living room. Before looking at himself, he focuses on the woodwork around the frame, draws in a deep breath and closes his eyes. When he opens them again, he thinks he has uncovered a portrait instead of a mirror. A portrait of some ancient ancestor who only thought to get himself painted when he was far too old and dying. But when he raises his hand, the figure in the frame raises its hand and Draco realises with dawning horror that he is in fact looking in a mirror, at himself. 

He seems to be half dead. His eyes are drooping with bags underneath them, his hair… oh, his hair. His skin has unhealthy, almost yellowish pallor to it and his lips are chapped and so dry that in one corner there is dried blood. His cheekbones and his chin seem to be knife sharp and without thinking, he brings his hands up to his face and covers it, hiding himself from the terrifying vision he has become. He has always, always been surrounding by beauty since his childhood but his appearance now is closer to the carnage he has witnessed under Voldemort’s fist of power than the carefully maintained Malfoy scion he used to be once upon a time. The knowledge that Potter has seen him like this… it makes him want to down the entire bottle of Calming Draught. 

Keeping his eyes closed, he envisions himself as he used to be, grips his wand and casts the spell, “Mutare Facies!” When he can bring himself to examine his appearance again, he thinks he resembles himself. Or who he used to be before. His cheeks have filled out, his eyes have brightened, his lips look plumper. But even as he looks at the face of the boy he used to be, something seems wrong. Something seems different, as though there’s a piece missing. If he wasn’t himself, he would have noticed nothing out of the ordinary but having spent the better part of his childhood in front of a mirror, he knows his own face and something isn’t right. But there’s only so much to be done. He fixes his hair and the collar of his robes, casts the charm again just to be sure. Then he takes a swig of Calming Draught, repeats Malfoy men have dragon heartstrings to himself over and over till the words lose meaning, takes a deep, fortifying breath and walks over towards the Floo. 

When he steps out of the Floo, he spends a second looking down at himself and dusting the ash off his robes. When he looks back up, he does a double take and blinks a couple of times to be sure he isn’t seeing things. 

He had expected Granger to be there with Potter hiding away somewhere pretending Draco wasn’t sullying the house he lived in and Weasley would be wherever he had been the last time. 

Instead, Granger, Potter and Weasley are sitting in three separate chairs, each one of them staring right at him. Granger is sitting with a mildly amused expression on her face, Weasley just looks confused and slightly bored and Potter… Potter is staring at him intensely, the flames of the fire flickering in his eyes, making the vibrant green an eerie shade of yellow. If he hadn’t been on the Draught, now would be when he would be spiralling straight into one of those moments where his thoughts take over, jamming his brain, making everything inside twenty times louder and muting the outside, moments which usually end up in him blacking out and waking up disoriented and confused. But the Draught keeps his heart from racing and he does his best to reign his thoughts in. Instead of blacking out, he swallows twice, focuses on Granger and says “Thank you for inviting me.” He swallows a couple more time before nodding to Potter and Weasley. 

Granger waves a dismissive hand at his greeting. “Sit down. Would you like something to eat?” 

He turns uncomfortably at Weasley and Potter, both of whom are staring at him wordlessly and shakes his head. Awkwardly and without looking him in his fire-bright eyes, he tells Potter, “Thank you for letting me into your home.” 

Potter nods in acknowledgement. Granger gets up. “I’ll get us some tea, sit down and when I’m back, we’ll go over the outlines.” 

He sits down, keeping his eyes on Weasley and Potter, both of whom are tracking his movements with their eyes. When the oppressive silence and staring gets far too much to bear, Draco bursts out, “What?!” 

It’s Weasley who speaks, tone even and calm, “What, Malfoy?” 

He gestures to them with his hands and grits his teeth, trying to find words for why they’re making him uncomfortable. “I’m not, I’m not some prize Abraxan horse ready to be cut into meat for a Viking feast so what’s with the creepy staring?” 

“We just want to listen in on what Hermione and you have to say,” Potter shrugs. 

“And that involves making me feel like, like some sort of exhibit?” 

This time Weasley is the one who shrugs. “No. That’s just for fun.” 

“I’m not laughing,” Draco says through gritted teeth. 

“Now that sounds like a completely personal problem, Malfoy,” Weasley says and Draco hears the barely contained mirth in his words. It makes him want to punch a wall, hex everything in sight and take another swig of the Calming Draught. He doesn’t do any of that. 

Without really thinking it through, his Malfoy manners hidden in some corner of his addled brain, Draco gets up and walks in the direction Granger had disappeared in. He remembers the way to the kitchen and when he reaches, she is standing before a boiling kettle, tapping her foot. 

“I can’t talk with them… out there.” His voice comes out slightly shaky. Granger turns around, evidently surprised to see him in his kitchen. There’s a Death Eater in her kitchen standing behind her, she’s going to draw her wand and kill him, she is going to call the Aurors, he is going to go to Azkaban– 

He stops himself before he can go further down the road. In, one, two three, out. In, one, two, three, out. In, one, two, three, out. 

“What do you mean?” Something in the tone of her voice betrays that she is repeating herself. That he didn’t hear her the first time because he was too caught up in his own head. 

“Sorry, just– I mean– Potter and Weasley. They’re staring at me like they would love to eat me alive. I can’t, I can’t talk with them sitting outside.” 

She frowns. There’s a smear of chocolate sauce or what appears to be chocolate sauce on her cheek. She swipes at it absently. “They aren’t staring at you because they would like to eat you alive or whatever it is. Maybe Ron is. No, I’m sure Ron is, just to mess with you a bit. But Harry, Harry is probably staring because he can sense the Glamour charm.” 

Draco’s lungs feel painfully tight. “He saw me without it. He told you.” 

Granger sounds apologetic, “I’m his best friend. He won’t tell another soul but he isn’t too great at keeping things from us.” She pauses before adding, “I can see the edges of the charm. If I concentrate.” She looks at him out of the corner of her eye. “I’m not concentrating.” 

He doesn’t know how to reply to that appropriately and manages a tight, “Thank you.” 

“It’s not a problem. How do you take your tea?” 

“Two sugars, no milk.” 

She nods and hands him a cup. She adds a splash of milk to the other cups and a sugar to each of them and before he can stop himself the words are out of his mouth. “Potter takes two sugars too.” 

Granger looks up from where she’s stirring her spoon and fixes him with such an intent stare that the blush Draco feels rising darkens his cheeks. “I’ve just, I’ve noticed, he used to sit opposite me in the Great Hall, we could see each other and you all were almost creating some commotion so I, I know–” 

“Draco,” Granger cuts him off. “You don’t need to explain. For what it’s worth, Harry probably knows how you take your tea as well. And you are right, he does take two sugars. I keep forgetting because he’s–” She hesitates before fixing him with a charming smile and says, “Never mind. Come along now.” 

He nods but the embarrassment settling in reaches right down to his bones. He admitted to himself a long time ago when the lying didn’t quite work anymore that he had a problem when it came to Harry Potter. But he didn’t quite need to make a show of it to Potter’s best friend. Especially when the best friend happens to be Granger. 

He follows her out into the living room where Potter and Weasley are talking to each other in quiet undertones. It stops when they enter and Weasley stretches with a sigh. “As fun as it was meeting you again, Malfoy, I’d prefer not being here longer than I have to be. Even if I do believe you aren’t here to cause trouble. So I’m going to take this tea upstairs and go through some of the files from the shop I brought home with me.” He kisses Granger on the cheek and tells Potter, “Keep an eye on him, mate,” in response to which Granger utters a low, “Ron, behave.” 

And then he’s gone. 

“I’m going to stay here if you don’t mind,” Potter says. 

“To keep an eye on me?” Draco questions dryly. “Way to make your guests feel comfortable.” 

“I sat on the floor of your kitchen.” He seems to realise what he said and his eyes widen and his lips stretch into a grimace, “I didn’t mean it like that–”

But the damage has been done. Somewhere deep inside the recesses of Draco’s heart, he had hoped that Potter had seen some of what he had gone through. Had understood it on some level. Had, if not sympathised, at least empathised. He had explained why he sat on the kitchen floor, thinking Potter was hallucination and despite what he had seen, the prick couldn’t just let it go. 

“Save it,” he tells Potter, the bitter edge to his own voice making him cringe. He didn’t mean to sound quite so hurt. “You came by, unexpected and without warning. Do let me know the next time you’re going to pop by to say hello, I’ll fix up the parlour.” 

Granger heaves a deep sigh. “Boys. If I can’t get you to behave when you’re in a room together, this project isn’t going anywhere.” 

Draco turns on Granger immediately, ignoring Potter’s half hearted apology attempts. “He’s part of it?” 

“He’s Harry Potter. Don’t you think that’s going to hold up better against a hostile Wizengamot instead of two personally invested individuals?” 

A fair, indisputable point. Draco can’t argue it so he chooses to settle back against the couch. But just because he has to accept it doesn’t mean he has to be happy about it or anything. 

“Malfoy, you’re a grown man. Do stop the sulking. And the damn pouting.” 

“I’m not, I’m not–!” He splutters but Granger cuts him off. 

“Back to business or we’re never going to get anywhere.” 

Fixing Potter with one last what he hopes is a venomous and not a full of hurt betrayal stare, Draco reaches out for the parchment Granger has pulled out. If he has to deal with an incompetent bastard, he has to work hard enough to make up for two. 

Potter does nothing, just twirls his wand between his fingers and stares.


	6. A Dazzling Place I Never Knew

Harry sees the edges of Malfoy’s Glamour flickering. 

It isn’t a prominent thing, just a subtle twitching which anyone else would pass off as a trick of the light but Harry with his magic sensitivity knows to not be. 

It’s the way Malfoy’s sides and face go slightly in an out of focus, the way his lips appear dreadfully chapped in the moment just before a blink. He knows that Hermione can probably see it as well and the confirmation that Malfoy steps out in public under an industrial grade Glamour Charm twists Harry’s stomach in knots he doesn’t know how to unravel. 

What Harry doesn’t understand is how the man maintains that level of strong magic at all times. The Malfoy he saw a couple days ago looked too weak to even cast a Levitation Charm but here he is, holding up a Glamour so powerful that it would have anybody fooled. Except him, but he has always been the exception when it comes to seeing through Malfoy’s facades. 

“…we need concrete plans before we present anything to the Council!” He is saying, voice rising slightly. Harry hasn’t registered what he was saying before that, having tuned out thinking of Malfoy but it sounds like Hermione and him are arguing. 

“I agree,” Hermione says, sounding frustrated, “but we do have to first have a plan of the whole thing before we get down to the details. We can’t simply set everything in stone now, it has to be flexible.” 

“Why can’t it be flexible in detail?” 

Hermione throws up her hands. 

That’s when Harry notices. The more worked up Malfoy gets, the more the Glamour stabilises. In fact, at this point had he not been able to sense its presence being in such close proximity, he would say it wasn’t there. His magic seems to be… feeding off his nervousness, his excitement. 

“Harry, say something!” Hermione urges, looking at him, frustrated energy shining through in her eyes. 

‘Yes, Potter, instead of sitting there and looking pretty, might as well put your presence to some use,” Malfoy says, tone snide and mocking. 

Trying to remember what their argument had even been about, Harry mulls it over. “To be honest,” he clears his throat, “both of you have a fair point. We can’t present anything to the Wizengamot unless it precisely details our plans for the project but we can’t spend all our time detailing or we won’t end up with a project at all.” 

“Now you’re just telling us what we already know,” Malfoy says, looking bored. 

“At this stage it’s more brainstorming than it is setting anything in stone. My vote is to write down anything that comes to anyone’s mind, regardless of whether it is an outline for the steps we will take or details of the proposal. Just, everything anyone comes up with, put it down somewhere. We can figure out where to go with it once we actually have some material.” 

Malfoy and Mione look at each other. Then they look back at Harry and nod simultaneously. “Alright. Harry, you’re taking notes.” 

“Wait, what?” 

“You came up with the idea and it is a good idea so Draco and I can hash out what we want and you can write down. Maybe even, I don’t know, throw around a few ideas of your own.” Malfoy rolls his eyes at that. 

Harry is horrified. Hermione is one of the fastest talkers he knows and Malfoy has enough quick wit to put stage comedians to shame. The pair of them talking at each other and then him will undoubtedly give him a headache. But he is the one who suggested it so instead of complaining in vain to the two immovable objects and unstoppable forces he knows, he summons a notepad and a pen from upstairs. 

“That’s a good boy,” Hermione grins. 

“Prize pet you got there,” Malfoy snorts. Hermione shoots him a warning glare and Harry clenches his fist to keep from throwing the notepad at Malfoy’s blond head. 

“We know we’re working with nine year old children from Pureblood and Muggle brought up families.” 

“What about half-bloods?” Harry asks. 

Malfoy taps his chin. “Something like familial consent should be necessary instead of the way Hogwarts just drags everyone into it. If a half blood child needs exposure to either world, their parents can sign them up for it. If this works, we just approach everyone.” 

“You think hardcore Purebloods will give familial consent for their kids to just go out into the Muggle world?” 

“That’s the benefit of the current political climate!” Malfoy says, sounding more excited. “If they sign up for it, the family looks better. Tells the world they aren’t Voldemort supporters, they have nothing against Muggles!” 

“Good point,” Harry murmurs, impressed. 

“I’m aware,” Malfoy tells him, sounding slightly pleased. 

Out of the corner of his eye, Harry notices Hermione’s lips tilt up in a smile. 

 

When Harry’s fingers start to feel numb from the rapid writing and the chicken scratch on the paper appears to barely be legible, he casts a glance at Malfoy and Hermione still passionately discussing the merits of history lessons on the medieval age in both Muggle and Wizarding culture and decides he has had enough for the day. 

He coughs lightly, knowing from years of experience it is absolutely wasted on Hermione and sees for himself that Malfoy, no matter what he has been maintaining strictly for the past seven years is cut from the exact same cloth. Paying him no mind at all, they continue to debate the effectiveness of metal weapons against wands. Surprisingly enough, Malfoy is advocating for the weapons and Hermione for magic. 

Harry gets up, stretches his legs, raises his arms above his head and swings them around before clutching at his arse and wincing slightly. His tailbone is sore from sitting in one position for quite so long and he can’t feel his thighs. Just as he grips his arse tighter, trying to relieve some of the soreness, the conversation stops and Harry looks down to see both Malfoy and Hermione staring at him. 

“You’re supposed to be taking notes, Harry,” Hermione chastises at the same time Malfoy says, “Something crawl up your arse, Potter?” 

Harry simply sighs and casts a wandless Tempus. The clock says it’s 9:14 pm. “We started at six fifteen,” Harry says by way of explanation. 

Both of them cock their heads to one side in an eerie replication of the other and say, “Oh,” in unison. It’s right at this moment that Ron chooses to enter, sees the two of them sitting on the couch with their heads tilted to one side, Harry gripping his arse with one hand and glowing red numbers in the air and walks right back out. 

“I’m hungry,” he calls from outside. “When you’re done with whatever satanic rituals you’ve got going on that involve Harry’s arse, I’d like some food.” 

Hermione makes a dusting motion with her hands and gets up, stretching beside Harry. When Malfoy gets up and opens his mouth, probably to bid them goodbye and leave, Hermione says, “Why don’t you join us, Draco? I think we have bangers and mash tonight with peas, Mrs Weasley sent some over.” 

Harry groans. He hears Ron drop something in the kitchen and Malfoy’s jaw drops. “No,” he says. “Thank you, but I couldn’t possibly–”

“Oh come on,” Hermione says. “What are you, busy? Have other plans? With the ghosts in your Manor perhaps? Maybe the doxies in the attic?” 

Malfoy scowls at her and Harry initially prepares himself to throw Malfoy out again for saying something insulting about Hermione but instead he primly says, “Since you’ve been so kind, I do believe it would be rude of me to turn you down.” 

Hermione smiles at him and though he tries very hard not to, the corners of Malfoy’s eyes crinkle just slightly. Harry can’t help but notice how much better he looks when he has that slight softening to the sharp planes of his face, less pointy and jagged, more approachable. 

Ron pops his head back in and utters a weary, “Really, ‘Mione? And here I was looking forward to dinner.” Then on second thought he adds, “Harry, mate, can you let go of your arse-cheeks now?” 

Blushing ferociously, Harry removes the hand he had forgotten was there and places it on his hip. 

At the table, there is an awkward lull for a few moments while Hermione serves bangers and mash and Harry sets the table. Malfoy and Ron sit at the table opposite each other and Harry notices Malfoy staring deliberately behind Ron’s head while Ron focuses intensely on Malfoy’s face for some reason. 

When they all sit down and dig in, Malfoy remarks, “Now this is all very nice and awkward, isn’t it? Granger, next time you invite me to dinner, do remind me of this evening, won’t you?” 

Hermione laughs lightly and Harry wants to comment, well we could small talk, hey Malfoy, how’re your parents? but holds himself back. Something tells him it won’t sit well with either Hermione or Malfoy. And after today, seeing him talk passionately about a project with Hermione on a level neither Harry nor Ron can indulge, he inexplicably doesn’t want to make the prat’s life more miserable. The insults… well, they’ll probably never stop occurring to him. It is Malfoy at the end of the day. 

Instead it is Ron who asks, “So what is it you do all day?” 

Malfoy pauses, his fork halfway to his mouth. He puts it down, swallows a couple times before saying, “Nothing much. I’m trying to fix the Manor the best I can.” He eats a bite and apparently thinking his answer was insufficient, goes on to add, “Well, you know, I do write to my mother, fix up the garden, things, things like that.” 

Ron nods. “Well, you and Harry have something in common, then.” 

At Malfoy’s blank look, he raises his eyebrows and says, “Neither of you leave the house. Harry looks so dreadful these days I’ve forgotten how he used to look before and under that Glamour you’ve got, I’m sure you look like those Muggle whiteboard thingies Dad brought in from the office.”

The table is quiet. Hermione seems to be holding her breath, Harry isn’t sure how to continue this conversation and Malfoy seems to be struggling to say something and is suffering at the hands of some merciless internal conflict. Eventually he settles on whispering, “Did you get my letters?” 

Harry doesn’t know what he’s talking about until he remembers. Malfoy’s letter to him after his testimony. A stiff thank you, a formal apology, a promise to make himself scarce from Harry’s life. He hadn’t been in the most stable frame of mind and the letter is a pile of flaky ashes now. He knows Ron and Hermione received letters too but he has no idea what they had done with them. Whether they had forgiven Malfoy or not. 

Another reminder of his inadequacy when it comes to being a friend. 

“Yes,” Hermione says solemnly. “I wrote back to you. We spoke about the day we met in Diagon, remember?” 

Malfoy nods, swallows and says, “Weasley and Potter didn’t.” 

Harry’s mouth has turned to cotton. Ron speaks, “I didn’t want to.” 

Malfoy blinks at him, eyes fearful and full of questions. 

Ron keeps his voice steady and says, “Because what that letter said wasn’t even close to enough.” 

Malfoy squeezes his eyes shut. He drops his fork, nods and after clenching and unclenching his hands a few times begins, “Right then. Thank you for the meal–”

“I wasn’t done,” Ron says. 

“Oh.” Malfoy’s voice is small and he sounds like he is bracing himself for a hex the way a first year does in front of a fifth year bully. 

“It wasn’t enough then and it isn’t enough now but what you’re doing here is a step towards being enough someday. I don’t trust you, I never might after all those years and everything you’ve done but the past is the past. You don’t need to atone for your sins or whatever it is you think you need to be doing. You just need to never go back. Do what you do, not just to even the score but just because you can. Because you want to. Do you understand?” 

Malfoy’s mouth is open in wonder. It is a strange expression on the face Harry is used to seeing smirking or talking or frowning angrily but in a way it is rather endearing. He appears… almost innocent. Then he almost slaps himself in the face for thinking about Malfoy as endearing. The prat repeatedly tried to kill him. 

Before any of them can register that Malfoy has begun to speak, Harry has to bite his tongue from gasping in shock. A split second before he opens his mouth, the Glamour Malfoy had maintained so carefully from the start collapses and Harry sees the emaciated ghost he had seen in the Manor two days ago. Malfoy doesn’t seem to notice. Instead in a trembling voice he says, “I don’t think I can explain how sorry I am for those years. I was a child and that isn’t, isn’t an excuse but it is, it is an explanation. My father was… strong. No one went against him and when he told me something was right or told me I had to do something, to go against it was unthinkable. He spoke about the glory of the Dark Lord and I believed him. He said, he said Mud–Mudbloods were filthy and Muggles were the bane of our existence and I… believed him.” 

“What changed?” Hermione asks quietly. 

Malfoy visibly swallows again and braces himself. He drags his tongue over his chapped lips, over the bleeding cut on the edge that Harry can see clearly now. His eyes are lacklustre and his face is drawn. “The Dark Lo– Voldemort came to live in our house. The task I was set in sixth year and I realised that no matter what, there is no glory here. We were servants, we were servants to a madman, a lunatic, a–a rapist. And I couldn’t believe my father anymore. I took the Mark to save him, to save Mother. To save the Manor. And I thought, if my father had been wrong about the Dark Lord, he could have been wrong about Muggles. Wrong about Muggle-borns. Wrong about you.” 

“You were a coward,” Harry says, the words slipping out. He doesn’t mean them hurtfully but instead truthfully. Malfoy nods. 

“I was. I could have, I could have gone to Dumbledore, maybe even to you but if I had done that… I would be disowned. And during the War, all I had left when all my beliefs were shattered, everything had gone to hell, was my name. And I didn’t want to lose it.” 

He draws in a deep breath and rubs a hand across his face and that’s when it hits him, the realisation that the Glamour has collapsed. He gasps and drags his finger over the bleeding cut on his lip and stares at it when it comes away smeared with blood. 

“Draco, Draco, it’s alright, just take a deep breath, we don’t mind, we already knew, remember?” 

But Malfoy’s panicked eyes betray the true depth of his terror. 

“No, no, no, no…” he’s murmuring under his breath and Harry, Ron and Hermione look at each other in consternation. 

“It’s okay,” Hermione says soothingly. “It’s alright, we don’t mind. Deep breaths, Draco, deep breaths.” 

He must have heard something because Malfoy begins to drag in deep lungfuls of air. After a minute, he seems to have calmed down. At least, comparatively. He sits at the table, his head in his hands and says nothing for a long time. 

Eventually Harry ventures, “Did you take the Calming Draught today?”  
Malfoy nods. 

Ron and Hermione look at each other. “You realise your tolerance is rising?” 

Malfoy nods again. 

“You need to see a Healer.” 

There’s a muffled laugh. “Find me a Healer who will see me, Granger.” 

Hermione sits up straight. “That shouldn’t be a problem. There are Healers at Mungo’s willing to be discreet–”

“I’m not worried about my secrets,” Malfoy says, raising his head from his arms, eyes blazing. “I’m worried about this!” 

He raises the sleeve of his robes to reveal an expanse of plain skin. It takes Harry a moment to register that it is his left arm where he should have the Dark Mark. He doesn’t. Instead, he seems to be intently focusing on it with the tip of his wand pressed to it and suddenly, the skin trembles and the black lines of the mark rise to the surface, the gruesome symbol becoming prominent. 

A Glamour so well spelled that it was undetectable. 

“There are Healer oaths, Malfoy,” Hermione says, not looking at the Mark but instead at his face. “They can’t refuse to treat you. You’ve been acquitted.” 

Malfoy laughs bitterly. “Don’t tell me you don’t remember what happened to Theo Nott.” 

Theodore Nott had been another underage Death-Eater, similarly acquitted of war crimes by Neville and Luna for participating in the Final Battle against the Death-Eaters. He had gone to Mungo’s a month after the War, complaining of severe chest pain but had been sent home with medication. Two weeks later he had been found dead in his bedroom. 

Harry doesn’t blame Malfoy for being sceptical of Mungo’s. To some extent, even he is. 

“Luna’s training to be a Mind Healer,” he says after a moment. “Maybe she could help.” 

“Lovegood?” Malfoy says. “Are you quite insane? She was imprisoned in the Manor’s cellars for so long I lost track. I’ll be lucky if she doesn’t hex me six ways from Sunday the minute she sees me.” 

Hermione shakes her head. “Luna’s not the type to hold grudges. She would be happy to help. If you want, I could get in touch with her.” 

“No.” Malfoy shakes his head vigorously. “No, no, no. I should never have let you talk me into dinner or whatever it is that you planned on doing here. I should have just left. I should have just left.” 

In an instant, he is up and heading for the door, paying no heed to Hermione’s Draco, wait! When Harry rushes out into the living room, he is just in time to say the tail end of Malfoy’s blue robes disappearing into the green flames of the Floo fire. 

Hermione and Ron come to stand beside him and when he says, “We’ve got to help him,” both of them agree immediately.


	7. But When I'm Way Up Here

After that evening, things settle into an odd routine. 

On Mondays and Thursdays, Hermione drags Malfoy into Muggle cafés and museums, holing him up in libraries and exhibitions. She comes back home bright eyed and talks about whatever she’s seen and the headway they have made on educating each other as their first projects. Maybe their only projects if the proposal doesn’t go through but Hermione had been determined to make some actual progress while they figured out the technicalities of their paperwork. Even if it turned out to be unofficial progress. 

On Saturday evenings, Malfoy turns up at Grimmauld and Harry takes notes of whatever it is the pair of them talk about. On some days its jargon that Harry has no idea how to even begin to understand and mainly misspells when writing and on other days he is a contributing member to the discussion. 

On Fridays and Wednesdays, Harry turns up at the Manor, usually with a lunchbox packed by Ron who has taken to cooking enough food for four. Malfoy opens the door everyday, sometimes immediately and sometimes ten minutes after Harry has knocked and announced his presence several times by shouting, conjuring flying birds and then simply sitting down and waiting. 

On one memorable occasion, it had been half an hour and eventually Malfoy had opened the door just to ask Harry to fuck off. Harry had held up the lunchbox and a Quidditch magazine and the crack had widened and he had been allowed in reluctantly. 

But though they spend time together, they barely speak. When they do, it’s about Quidditch or the news in the Prophet. Sometimes they solve a crossword together. Harry barely ever gets a word but he likes making fun of Malfoy’s failed attempts and even though he won’t admit it, there is something alluring about the way Malfoy bites his lower lip and sucks it into his mouth when he is concentrating. 

Yes, that, that is a recent development. 

It is a frustrating but recent development– he has begun to notice Malfoy. He has begun to notice that he looks happy when Harry brings in sweets and barely touches his food if there is something spicy. He has begun to notice that some colour is returning to Malfoy’s cheeks, that his eyes don’t look quite so empty anymore. Whether it is because of the food or the company or something Malfoy is doing for himself, Harry doesn’t know (and definitely doesn’t hope it is the company) but Malfoy looks healthier in the three weeks they have adopted the routine. He notices that Malfoy laughs in a way that makes his Adam’s apple prominent in his throat (and in a moment of weakness, Harry had wanted to lean over and trace his tongue over that pale, milky expanse of skin). He notices and he knows he shouldn’t. Not because both of them are men because the Wizarding World doesn’t particularly care about that, only the very old Pureblood families do and that is only due to concerns about continuing bloodline. 

But because he is Harry Potter and this is Draco Malfoy and it can never go anywhere. 

There’s too much history there. 

Today is Friday and Harry has blueberry muffins with him. It technically shouldn’t be lunch, a pile of sugar and cake but he recalls that Malfoy was looking slightly off on Wednesday and he always brightens up when Harry brings cake. He knocks on the door and waits. 

And waits. 

And waits. 

When ten minutes have passed, Harry calls out for Malfoy, sends a couple conjured birds flying around to peck on windows. He says he is going to wait, says he is going to not go anywhere till the prat opens the bloody door but there is no response at all. Sighing, Harry sits down to wait, tracing patterns on the marble with his shoe. 

After an inordinate amount of time has passed, Harry starts feeling uneasy. It has been half an hour, maybe more and a nagging thought at the back of his mind makes him get up and unlock the door with magic. 

He steps into the dark hallway, passes the living room, steps into the kitchen. There is no one in the kitchen. 

Immediately Harry knows something is wrong. Malfoy is always in the damn kitchen. He checks the rooms, casting charms to reveal human presence and when he finds nothing, he is almost willing to believe Malfoy has left the house to go somewhere. He is about to leave when a faint memory of walking through these halls quietly, silently, in the dead of the night niggles at the back of his brain. 

A swishing sound, hisses. Cold floors, dark rooms. Maniacal laughter. 

Not his memory. Voldemort’s memory. 

Closing his eyes and concentrating, he follows the directions from his brain which seems to be running on muscle memory of another body. When he opens his eyes, he is standing in front of an unfamiliar door at the far end of the house.

The door creaks open the moment he pushes and when he looks around, nausea hits him hard in the gut. These rooms are intimately familiar though he has never been here. These rooms are there in his memories, he knows where he is. He has seen this place in his nightmares. 

Voldemort’s personal quarters at Malfoy Manor. 

He looks around, sees nothing until a pale hand behind the bed catches is eye on the floor. He moves fast, almost running and finds Malfoy sprawled on his back, eyelids fluttering. His breaths are shallow though not dangerously so and Harry can’t decide between relief and panic at the sight. 

He chooses to numb it all down regardless, lifts up Malfoy’s slight frame and carries him back to the kitchen. It isn’t an easy task given that Malfoy is pretty tall and no matter how wispy he looks, he’s heavy when he is dead weight in Harry’s arms. He lays him down on the kitchen floor, the kitchen floor on which they sit together and have much and solve crosswords in the Prophet. It isn’t an ideal position but Malfoy seems to relax slightly and Harry heaves a sigh of relief. 

“Rennervate,” he murmurs, pressing his wand to Malfoy’s forehead. 

Malfoy wakes slowly. His eyes blink open and close before he groans and blinks them open again. He takes in his surroundings and sits up slowly, looking for all the world like a big, blond, confused puppy. 

“What happened?” He asks Harry, voice raspy and weak. Harry gets up, pulls out a glass and casts an Aguamenti into it. Malfoy tracks his movements with confused grey eyes but when Harry holds out the glass to him, he drinks the whole thing in one go. Harry refills it and Malfoy sips at it again before repeating, “What happened, Potter?” 

“I found you unconscious in a room.” 

Malfoy frowns before paling considerably which is a notable feat given how washed out he already appears to be. 

“Oh.” 

“Why did you go there?” 

Malfoy looks at him, confused. “How do you know what that place was?” 

Harry glares. “Well, aside from the residual magic I could feel clinging to my skin when I stepped in there, I was… there.” He hesitates. “In my dreams. In Voldemort’s head.” 

Malfoy laughs, a soft, slightly broken sound. “Oh yeah. I forgot you used to have those.” 

“Lucky for you, I didn’t.” 

“I would have been fine, Potter. You didn’t have to save my life again.” 

Harry sighs resignedly. “I’m trying to help.” 

Instead of throwing the comment back in Harry’s face like he is wont to do, Malfoy leans against the kitchen cabinets and says, “I know. I’m sorry.” 

Harry almost swallows his tongue in surprise. And chokes. And bursts into a coughing fit. When he looks back up at Malfoy, it is to find him glaring. “What?” He demands. 

“You just apologised. Like a decent human being.” 

“Yeah well, I won’t be making that mistake twice,” he says, turning away and pouting like a petulant child. 

“Hey, Malfoy,” Harry says, letting some amusement and a little mischievousness creep into his voice, “It was nice. Novel, I’ll give you that but nice.” He grins. 

A tentative smile creeps on to Malfoy’s face, tugging on his lips. 

Before he knows what he is doing, Harry clears his throat and holds out a hand. “I’m Harry Potter.” 

Malfoy stares at his hand, looks at Harry like he’s grown a second head and says, “I know.” 

Impatiently, Harry shakes his head. “We got off on the wrong foot and remained that way for seven years. It’s time to wipe that slate clean, it’s been too long. And I’ve save your life too many times for us to not be on better terms. So hey, I’m Harry Potter.” 

“I’m Draco Malfoy,” Malfoy says, after a few beats silence. “Nice to meet you, Potter.” 

Harry smiles at him. “Clean slate and all that, you know? Call me Harry.” 

Draco looks hesitant but says it all the same, “Alright then, Po– Harry. Call me Draco.” 

 

“Alright then, Po– Harry. Call me Draco.” 

This is one of those bizarre moments when Draco likes to pinch himself discreetly to check if he’s dreaming or not. When a sharp tug to his thigh causes only pain and no jolt into reality, Draco is forced to believe this is happening. Potter and him are shaking hands and giving each other permission to use first names. His life has changed so drastically in three weeks that Draco sometimes feels like he is walking around, half asleep, unaware of the changes that are taking place until he comes face to face with them. 

Granger takes him out to Muggle things, Potter comes over and feeds him lunch that Weasley cooks for him. Draco doesn’t know what to think of any of those occurrences but he does know that the outings with Granger are a welcome reprieve from the Wizarding World and its oppressive expectations, that Potter’s company is tolerable (he refuses to think of it as nice, even if it is, even if it makes Draco feel less lonely in the confines of his own head) and that Weasley’s cooking is somehow phenomenal and if he drops everything he is doing and opens a bakery, he will have a thriving business. 

He doesn’t tell any of them this. He pretends to be bored when Granger suggests a new place, scowls at Potter and insults him whenever he’s there and tells Weasley his tarts need work even if he did spend the previous afternoon polishing them off in three seconds each and wishing for more. But he suspects they know anyway because Granger takes him to more astronomical observatories after she finds out he liked the first one, remembers his coffee order when he can’t wrap his head around the weird names. Because Potter turns up every Wednesday and Friday without fail no matter how many times Draco makes him wait on the porch and jabbers about Quidditch scores and Weasley just smiles and piles more potatoes on his plate. 

They taste heavenly. 

But none of that compares to Potter asking him to call him Harry and him responding by asking Po-Harry to call him Draco. That is on a separate plane of impossible, unthinkable, something out of his teenage jealous dreams. Except in those, Potter would leave Granger and Weasley after insulting them thoroughly, apologise profusely to Draco for the years he spent insulting him and throwing hexes, and then grovel till Draco allowed him to be his friend. 

This isn’t that but it comes close in that him and Potter are on first name basis. 

He probably should start calling the prat Harry. 

But Harry opens up a whole new arena of problems because when Draco has a hand wrapped around his dick in bed, thinking of Potter with his green eyes and smooth, dark skin, of his lips stretched around his dick, of his fingers in his arse, it is one thing. Meaningless, just something to get him off. 

But if that Potter becomes Harry there will be an edge of intimacy to it that will be a fatal hope, a desire that will have to die a thousand deaths every time Draco reminds himself that such dreams are fool’s gold. 

He will keep chasing till his legs give out. Or his lungs. 

But before he can spiral thinking about Potter and Harry, said individual has discarded the shy grin and looks extraordinarily like Granger when she is gearing up for a long lecture. 

“What were you thinking, going there? With your anxiety?” 

There’s that word again. Granger uses it all the time, says she has it herself. Says the panic attacks are symptoms of it, extreme symptoms. He won’t deny it, her help has been invaluable in dealing with the damn spiralling in public. Breathing, focusing, concentrating on the senses. 

“I have to clean up,” he says, not meeting Harry’s eyes.  
“You don’t have to do it alone.” 

Draco looks into those earnest, bright green eyes that hold more weight than words ever will and his throat feels dry when he asks, “Yeah?” 

“Yeah,” Harry nods. “It’s not pleasant and you don’t have to clean it but if you really need to, we can do it together.” 

“Okay,” he breathes out. “Okay.” 

They sit in silence for a few minutes before Draco says, “When will you stop?” 

Harry shoots him a confused glance. 

“All of this,” Draco tries to explain. “Coming over with the food, telling me you’ll help. Rescuing me.” 

Without missing a beat Harry says, “When you stop needing it and stop wanting me to.” 

“You don’t have to do any of this.” 

“I know that.” 

“Doesn’t she mind?” Draco asks eventually. 

“Who?” Potter asks, brows furrowed. “Hermione wants me to–”

‘Not her. The Weaslet– Ginny Weasley. She’s your girlfriend right?” 

Harry’s jaw clenches. He looks away and runs his fingers through his hair. “Not anymore,” he says. “She isn’t my girlfriend anymore.” 

“Oh.” 

“She’s at Durmstrang. Getting her NEWTS. She left after Fred’s funeral. We never, we didn’t…” he trails off, looking slightly lost. 

“You miss her,” Draco ventures a guess even though his heart is twisting. He is nailing shut his own coffin, asking for the pain. Asking for Potter to reminisce about his lost love. Asking for Potter to confirm that he really doesn’t stand even a fraction of a chance. 

“I do,” he responds with a sad smile. “Very much.” 

The lump in Draco’s throat is so large that he can’t do more than hum without fearing his voice breaking into sobs midway. He needs to stop. Needs to stop thinking about the green eyes and the wide smile, the wild magic cracking in the air like wind before a thunderstorm. Needs to stop thinking about Harry or Potter or his dick or his arse or his long, curling eyelashes.

He needs to stop and needs to stop now. 

“Did you get your NEWTS?” Harry asks after a while. 

“No. I thought I would go back to Hogwarts to repeat seventh year but I didn’t think I would be welcome.” 

“A wise man once told me help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it.” 

Draco sighs. “I betrayed the castle. Dumbledore was never my favourite person and McGonagall always did have it out for me and Hagrid… you know I don’t like Hagrid. But Hogwarts was my home, the Slytherin dungeons were where I grew up. Made friends. Became Draco Malfoy. And I betrayed Hogwarts and its safety.” He looks at Harry who is looking back at him strangely. “So I’m not afraid of the students or McGonagall or the teachers. I’m afraid to face the castle itself, knowing what I did to it.” 

Harry seems to struggle with his words. “You, you made amends with us. All three of us. And you tormented us more than you ever did the castle. If we can forgive and move on, so can Hogwarts. Especially a place like Hogwarts.” 

Draco doesn’t know what to say to that admission of forgiveness so he attempts to lighten the mood by saying, “Enough for today. What have you got for lunch today?” 

‘I swear, you only allow me in for the food,” Harry responds, mock glaring. 

“Well, it certainly isn’t for the company, did you think it was?” He smirks. 

“Prat.” 

“Knob.”

“Arse.” 

“Tosser.” 

“Whinging brat.” 

“Uncivilised barbarian.” 

Harry shakes his head, grin widening. “Any more of those and the blueberry muffins I brought are going back to Grimmauld with me.” 

Draco’s eyes widen and he lunges for the bag. “You’ve been sitting on Weasley’s blueberry muffins for this long? Whatever the fuck is wrong with you Potter?”

“Quiet a few things I imagine,” he hears Harry murmur as he sinks his teeth into one of the delicacies and groans. 

“I would suck Weasley’s dick everyday if it meant he kept making me these.” 

The sound of Harry choking on his spit is music to Draco’s ears.


	8. It's Crystal Clear

It is Saturday evening, six weeks into the planning of Granger’s project. The proposal is almost complete, just some finishing touches to be added. Harry has spoken to Kingsley, giving him a vague idea of the project and when the Minister agrees to hear out your ‘innovative and interesting plan’ there is very little you feel you cannot accomplish. So Draco takes the Floo to Grimmauld Place in high spirits, a spring in his step, expecting to add the final details in by today so they are ready in time for next week for the Minister. 

What he steps into is chaos. 

The living room is complete madness, the couch torn into and stuffing flying around. There is broken glass on the floor, the furniture has been haphazardly pushed around. Cold panic seeps into Draco’s heart, fearing the worst, that some fanatic follower of Voldemort had finally finished his master’s unfinished business when he hears it. 

Loud, unbridled shrieking, the sound followed by the splintering of glass on marble. He follows the noises upstairs, pausing in shock before what appears to be Harry’s room. Granger is sitting on the floor in front of the room, head in her hands, inhuman sounds coming from her throat. Weasley is standing in the middle of the room, looking completely blank, murmuring unintelligible words and Harry… 

Harry is a whirlwind. He is twirling about the room, a maniacal glint in his eye. One lens of his spectacles has a crack running down I, making him look broken in a strange way but what is truly terrifying is the smile on his face. It is a grim, determined smile and as he aims his wand at a wall, the plaster comes flying off and hits Weasley in the side. He falls to the floor, still blank, still murmuring and Granger only shrieks louder but Harry is completely deaf to everything else. He keeps aiming at different parts of the room, twisting and turning this way and that. 

Recovering from his shock, Draco quickly assesses the situation. Granger is quite possibly having some sort of anxiety attack because capable witch that she is, she is sitting on the floor, hands around her ears, knees pressed against her chin, rocking to and fro like a scared child and screaming. Weasley doesn’t seem to be here at all, his eyes faraway, his forehead bleeding and weird bruises forming on his arms where his sleeves have ripped to expose skin. Potter has for all intents and purposes gone absolutely insane. 

Without thinking of the consequences, afraid he will run if he pauses too long to overthink, Draco takes out his wand and fires a Stunner at Harry. Hearing his voice murmur the spell, Harry turns around, wand pointed, lips curving around a spell of his own but the Stunner hits him in the chest when he least expects and he falls to the floor, limbs sprawled, wand rolling out of his hand. Weasley is still sitting on the floor and having no idea what to do with him, Draco chooses to focus on Granger whose shrieks are even louder in the silence following Harry being stunned. 

He crouches next to her and peers into her tear streaked, scrunched up face. He tries to catch her attention without touching her but when nothing seems to work, he clamps his hand over her mouth. 

Her eyes fly open immediately and widen at the sight of him. She struggles and tries to back away but Draco holds his hand in place desperately with no idea what else to do. She is scared, probably seeing him as a threat and he has to keep a hand over her mouth. But in the ensuing silence, he starts talking. 

“It’s me. It’s Draco. You’re at 12, Grimmauld Place, the War is over. It is 5th December, 1998, the War is over. You’re safe in your home, you’re safe, the War is over. It is over, you’re safe, you’re alright.” 

He keeps repeating the same words, that she’s safe, that the War is over, that her friends are alright. That the War is over. He keeps at it till her breathing calms, till she stops struggling. Tentatively he removes the hand from her mouth and she takes in two deep gulps of air with her eyes closed. 

“Breathe in for me, Hermione,” he murmurs, voice even and soft. “One, two, three, that’s good, breathe out. Again, one, two three, breathe out…” 

He lets her take her time, let’s her breathe deeply and evenly and then asks, “Better?” 

She nods slightly. Then without any warning at all, she sags in his arms and collapses against his chest. Surprised and almost on the verge of panicking himself, he makes strange motions with his hands behind her back, not quite knowing what to do with them when he realises his shirt is wet. 

Granger is crying. 

It is soundless and she is barely moving but her entire body is trembling and where her face is pressed against his chest, there is a growing wet spot of tears. Awkwardly he rubs her back, hoping it helps, praying she recovers soon enough to do something about the other two thirds of the trio and so worried about her that he can barely think straight. If a few months ago someone had told him he would have a sobbing Granger cradled against his chest, a stunned Potter and a catatonic Weasley in the same room and he would be more worried about them than his own wellbeing, he would have hexed them hard enough to land them in a different continent. But right now, he can’t help but be grateful that he stepped in when he did. 

After a few moments, she removes herself and wipes her face on the back of her hand. “Thank you,” she whispers, voice hoarse and barely audible from all the shouting. “Do you have some Calming Draught? I think I ran out.” Draco nods and reaches into his pocket where he keeps his supply of the Draught. He hands it to her and she measures it out drop my drop onto her tongue. After she swallows, she casts a throat clearing charm and says, “If you want to leave, you can. I can handle this by myself.”  
Draco shakes his head. “I’m staying. Tell me what to do.” 

The look she sends his way is so grateful that Draco feels slightly embarrassed. “Can you please Floo Ron’s healer and ask her to come over? Tell her it’s an emergency. Healer Choudhury at Mungo’s Mental Maladies.” 

Draco hesitates. ‘Mungo’s?” 

Granger frowns before her expression clears. “No, I mean yes, but they are a separate department. They’re set up in Hogsmeade. And they don’t really care who you are.” 

“Okay.” 

Draco heads downstairs, heart pounding. He doesn’t feel safe leaving Granger alone up there but he reminds himself that she is a capable witch who was the mastermind behind Voldemort’s downfall. 

Healer Choudhury is a small witch in beige robes with a kind face who smiles reassuringly at Draco when he calls. When he explains the situation, the smile drops and she looks grave. “Oh dear, I’ll be in in a minute. Tell Hermione I’m on my way, won’t you?” 

Draco nods and swallows. He draws his head out of the fire and races back up the steps to find Hermione talking softly to Ron who still appears completely vacant. “She’s coming,” he tells her and the tense set of her shoulders relaxes slightly. 

“Oh, thank Merlin!” She says before turning back to Weasley and pulling him to her chest. He is completely unresponsive but Draco thinks it is more for her own benefit than Weasley’s. 

“What’s happened to him?” Draco finally has the courage to ask. Granger hesitates for a moment before saying, “He dissociates.” 

“Hmm?” 

“He… he can’t tell where he is. He thinks he is still in the War. In the tent, or in Gringotts or at Hogwarts or…” 

“Or?” 

“The Manor,” she admits, biting her lip. “I think that is where he is now.” 

Draco’s breath catches in his throat. 

They sit like that for a minute until they hear heels clicking on the staircase. Healer Choudhury steps in, assesses the wreckage that used to be a room and clicks her tongue. “Draco, why don’t you take Hermione and go downstairs while I see to Ron?”  
Granger hesitates before asking in a quiet voice, “What about Harry?” 

Choudhury looks over to where a stunned Harry is still lying on the ground. “Am I right in guessing this is his doing?” 

Hermione nods. 

“Was it accidental magic?” 

“I– I don’t–”

“No,” Draco interjects, knowing Granger doesn’t know how to respond given her own situation at the time. “He was casting spells. Pointing his wand at the walls, at the bed, at the pictures. Smiling, completely unresponsive to anything else. Weasleys cuts… the plaster hit him a few times.” 

“I see,” Choudhury says. “I’ll do what I can. Now, don’t you worry dear, go downstairs and have some hot cocoa. Maybe some chocolate. And we’ll have a chat after I’m finished here. Is that alright?” 

‘Yes, yes of course. If you need to put them to sleep, there’s a room down the hall. This… this is Harry’s room.” 

The Healer nods and when they back away, she casts some privacy charms around herself and Ron and begins to say things to him that they can’t hear. 

Taking Granger’s arm in his, he leads her down the stairs, sits her down in the untouched kitchen and asks her to help him make the cocoa. “Just sit there and tell me where what is and I’ll do it,” he tells her firmly when she attempts to get up and make it herself. She slumps in her seat. 

He makes the cocoa quietly and serves her a mug of it before sitting down beside her. 

“Do you want to talk about what happened?” 

She shrugs. “Not really but I think you deserve to know.” 

“You don’t have to tell me anything you don’t want to.” 

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t want to but until I get it out, I’m going to die on the inside.” She chokes over her next few words, “After all it was my fault.” 

Draco’s brows furrow. He’s sure it isn’t her fault but he knows how futile it is to say that to someone who believes something is their fault. 

“I told him we would leave!” She bursts out all of a sudden. “I told him we would leave and he’s been this way for so long, scared and lonely and frightened and it’s all because of one stupid, impulsive thing I said!” 

Draco says nothing, waiting for her to continue. 

“The first time I brought you here and that thing happened between you and Harry, I got so mad at him. I was fired up and angry because he barely spoke to us, kept himself locked up in his room with the curtains closed, drank continuously in the evenings, spoke awfully to me, barely spoke to Ron, stopped speaking to the Weasleys. He was angry and he would break things every time his anger spiked with accidental magic. He didn’t eat the meals we cooked, threw around the fact that it was his house and that day… that day it reached a tipping point.” She draws in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. 

“So after I dropped you off, I came back and he there another fit so I told him that Ron and I were leaving because we… because we couldn’t live with a ghost anymore. He was a ghost! He was nothing but a ghost with all his dead drifting around him, lurking in the shadows. He was becoming a shadow himself! And I love him, I love him so much I couldn’t watch it anymore. So I told him, I told him we would leave. I told him we would leave.” She chokes on her sobs and gasps and coughs a few times before starting to cry. 

“And after that… he came back. He started cooking again, started sleeping in our room when he wasn’t feeling too great, started talking to us. He made amends with you and I thought, I thought he was… okay! But… but…” Her speech is so garbled at this point that Draco has to strain to make out what he is saying. 

“Today I asked him to go with us to the Weasleys. He hasn’t gone in months. And he got all cold and shut off. I kept asking… I kept asking why but he wouldn’t say. And I got frustrated and told him if he didn’t want to come, we’d go without him. And he…” 

She buries her head in her hands and shakes like a leaf in a storm. 

“He lost it,” he finishes for her. 

She nods and hiccups. “Ron tried to stop him. Ron tried to tell him that we weren’t going anywhere but he just kept shouting about how he was scared we were going to leave him. How he was terrified, how he was making an effort and it was draining him, how he just didn’t want any of this anymore. And he started saying things like I was all he had because Ron had left us in the Forest of Dean, left us and gone away and I was all he had left and how I would leave him too and he didn’t… he stopped making sense after that. And Ron, Ron just went all silent like he does when these things happen and I tried, I tried so hard to get them to calm down but I couldn’t, it was all, it was all out of order, all out of order…” 

Draco shifts closer to her. He wants to be angry because this pain, this suffering, it merits anger. It merits tears and anger and misery but Draco can’t find anyone to be angry with. Except maybe Voldemort but he can’t get any angrier with that bastard. 

“Drink the cocoa,” he tells her. “They’ll be alright. There’s a Healer with them.” 

She nods and takes a gulp of the hot cocoa. 

“That’s right,” he says, trying to be soothing. “It’s going to be okay.” 

They sit quietly in the kitchen for a long while, not saying anything to each other. The air is apprehensive but not uncomfortable. They’ve seen each other at their weakest Draco thinks. Finally he feels like he is on even footing with them. Like on some level, they understand each other. 

They startle when Healer Choudhury walks into the kitchen with a grave look on her face. Hermione looks so worried that she rushes to assure her, “Ronald is quite alright. He was in a traumatic headspace but when I could draw him out of it sufficiently to start communicating, he got better.” 

“What was he–” Hermione begins but Choudhury cuts her off. 

“You know I am not at liberty to discuss, Hermione. If he wishes to tell you in time, he will.”

Hermione looks down and swallows. “But he’s alright.” 

“For now, yes.” 

Hermione leans back against the back of the chair, looking relieved. 

“But there is something I need to speak to you about.” 

The Healer’s face is serious. She isn’t too old, Draco thinks, perhaps in her mid thirties. But she appears wiser than anyone of that age Draco has ever encountered. Hermione looks alarmed. 

“It’s Harry Potter. I’m sure you guessed as much.” 

All the fight seems to go out of the woman. Her whole face just droops and she closes her eyes and says, “Yes. I guessed.” 

“I fear something terrible might happen if he goes untreated for much longer. It has reached a point where if he comes in now, he will be put on medication for depression, anxiety and anger issues. If he comes in later or doesn’t at all… there’s a chance it will spiral further out of control than it already has.” 

“What exactly are you saying?” 

“If Harry doesn’t receive professional help soon, he may need to be institutionalised. For his own safety and that of others including yourself.” 

Hermione looks lost for a moment before she whispers, “What do I do? What do I do?” 

Draco doesn’t have an answer. 

 

When Harry wakes up, it is to a dark room. 

His head is pounding and his throat is parched and so dry that is hurts to swallow around his tongue that feels like a hundred pound dead weight inside his mouth. He tries to move his hand but his limbs feel sluggish and it flops to his side. 

He tries to focus past the pounding at his temples and hears the even breathing of somebody else in the room. “Water,” he manages, the word coming out raspy and broken grating against the roof of his raw mouth. 

There’s a straw held to his lips and he raises his head slightly to get a better angle at it. Cool, fresh water washes his mouth and the relief he feels almost makes up for the truly unbearable headache. 

“Where am I?” He questions, unable to remember anything except darkness. Inky, opaque darkness. 

“Shhh,” says a voice. Presumably the voice of whoever gave him the water. The voice is not unfamiliar but he can’t quite place it. His head hurts too much for him to make a conscious effort. 

He shuts his eyes against the murky black of the room and it eases some of the pain significantly with the strain of keeping his eyes open gone. He allows himself to think and memories come back to him, as though passing through some fog in his mind. Screaming, but distant, constant screaming. Flashes of light. Pulses of fear that sent his heart racing. Hermione’s terrified face flashes through his mind and triggers a memory of Ron, stating motionless and falling to the ground with the impact of something hitting him in the side. Malfoy’s face, grim and determined. Anger, anger, white hot anger. 

Wait, Malfoy? 

Slowly, gradually, it starts coming back. Hermione saying they would leave for the Weasley’s without him. Panic, pain, rage. Memories of the Forest of Dean, memories of Ron walking out. Memories of wanting to tear apart everything in sight, to damage as much as he was damaged. Memories, memories, memories.  
It was a Saturday. Saturday meant Malfoy was supposed to come over for dinner. And he had. And he had taken Harry down. 

Harry doesn’t know if he wants to scream, cry or throw himself off the Astronomy Tower. 

“I’m sorry,” he gets out to the presence in the room, hoping they’re listening. 

“I don’t need an apology, Harry,” a low musical voice tells him gently. “I arrived only an hour ago.” 

Confused, Harry reaches out blindly and grasps at the corner of some fabric. 

“Luna?” 

“Hello, Harry. Do you think you could handle some very dim light? I know your head must be killing you right now. You can keep your eyes closed if you want.” 

“Yes,” Harry responds quietly. 

Luna casts a spell and the room glows slightly as though a wall sconce has been lit in one corner of the room. There are shadows lurking here and there, eerie shapes in the darkness but the light doesn’t hurt at all. Instead, Harry feels warmer. He peers through his lids, opening them only a fraction. 

Luna is sitting in a chair by the bed, wearing warm yellow robes. Her earrings, Harry thinks has moth wings on them. The serene smile on her face is contagious and before he knows it, he’s shooting her a weary smile and saying, “It’s good to see you.” 

“I wish I could say the same,” she says seriously, without even a hint of mocking in her tone. Harry knows if it was anyone else, he would be offended but this is Luna. And Luna is always, always honest. Even when it hurts. 

“I know,” he says, shutting his eyes and sinking back into the pillow. “I know.” 

“You know why I am here,” she tells him. It isn’t a question. He ought to know. 

“I can guess.” 

“If your guess is that Hermione and Draco pulled me out of my Healer training for a day to come and speak to you and tell you you’re being an idiot, then it’s right.” 

“He hears her words but registers only up to the point where she says Draco. 

“Draco?” He asks, throat dry. 

“Yes, Harry, Draco Malfoy. Hermione said you both have become some sort of friends. He was here for what happened. Do you remember?” 

Harry nods as best as he can without raising his head or moving it too much. He can’t decide what is more exhausting– moving his aching head or speaking with a sore, raw throat. 

“You need help,” Luna says matter of factly. “And before you object and tell me it’s unnecessary, I’m going to give you a rundown of exactly what you did today so you know to what extent this has gone.” 

Protest drying on his lips, Harry swallows and shakily nods again. His memory is blurry at best but even of what he remembers, he knows not much of it is great.

“Firstly, you continue to refuse to meet your family for the last four months or so. That in itself warrants some sort of concern on everyone’s part. When Hermione approached you about it, you were closed off and rude to her. Which tells me there’s something you’re not telling us about your reasons to not meet the Weasleys which doesn’t involve Fred or Mrs. Weasley which are the reasons you gave in the past. When she saw they would go without you, you completely lost control which is related to something she said six or so weeks ago in the heat of an argument and ripped apart your living room with accidental magic. And that leads us to a whole depth of problems which if I try to explain right now, we will be here all night. You were so triggered, you went back into the past, to memories of abandonment from your friends and used it against them. You triggered both Hermione and Ron into extreme forms of panic and PTSD and demolished practically the entirety of your room, physically hurting Ron in the process. You had to be restrained magically to stop yourself from causing more harm to your surroundings and that is saying something given how much damage was already caused. Now, Harry, tell me which part of that seems to not require help to you?” 

Harry is numb. Frozen in shock. He had stopped feeling the jolts of shock when she mentioned triggering Ron and Hermione and had entered into a feeling of total, freezing, continued numbness. 

“I did all that?” He finally manages, clenching his eyes shut, powering through the pain in his skull. 

“Yes.” 

“Luna.” 

“I don’t have comfort to offer here, Harry. I’m telling you, you need help. You had to be sedated with Dreamless Sleep after the Stunner wore off. The dosage was so strong that it gave you the headache.” 

“Oh.” 

 

He doesn’t know what else to say. He finally settles on, “How are they now?” 

“Hermione is alright. Distraught, anxious but comparatively alright. Ron is sleeping but it’s natural sleep. And you have Draco Malfoy to thank for all of that.” 

The feelings Harry has been trying to suppress for the last four weeks for Draco, the urge to grab him and kiss him when he smiled or rolled his eyes at Harry, the urge to take him up to the bedroom and take his clothes off gently, sweetly, to show him that the world could be better than he had witnessed it to already be, those feelings solidify and merge with the rush of gratefulness in his veins to become an aching sadness. After today, he can never even hope to have Draco near him, close to him, want him. Because Draco had to Stun him to get him to stop hurting his friends. Because Draco had to piece Ron and Hermione back together by himself when he himself was more broken than he let on. Because Draco Malfoy is becoming a better person and Harry is slowly but surely becoming a despicable one. 

Maybe they actually will leave this time, he muses. He can’t hold on to them after this. But in one last act of desperation, he opens his eyes fully and looks at Luna. She sits their, serious and contemplative– honest, kind, sweet Luna who has just told him he needs to be restrained to not hurt his friends. 

“Tell me what I can do. Tell me what I can do so this doesn’t happen again. So this never, ever happens again.” 

Luna’s face breaks out into a radiant smile and Harry feels the remaining pieces of his heart break further into fragments so small he doubts he can ever be whole again.


	9. That Now I'm In A Whole New World With You

Draco stays with Granger late into the night. She sits on the bed in the room Weasley is sleeping in and he sits in an armchair by the fire. Harry is with Lovegood in another room and Lovegood has sent a Patronus saying Harry woke up for a while and in conversation consented to therapy as long as the Mind Healers were discreet and didn’t give him special treatment simply because he was the Saviour. And then, he had gone back to sleep. 

Granger is exhausted but sleepless, sitting by Weasley’s head, stroking his hair. His cuts have been healed and salve applied to the bruises on his side and arms. He hasn’t woken up since Healer Choudhury left but she assured them that this was natural sleep and he would wake up, hopefully fresh and stable the next morning. 

“Let’s go over the finer details of the proposal,” she had said, voice shaky but determined. Draco had acquiesced and they had spoken about it till they were hoarse and only had to review the whole thing once more before presenting it first to the Minister and then to the Council. When they couldn’t speak anymore, Granger had taken to staring off into space and Draco had played with the flames of the fire, changing their colours and turning them into dancing animals with magic. 

He sees Granger’s head droop before she jerks herself awake and widens her eyes to keep them from falling shut and frowns. 

“Granger,” he says, “Go to sleep. It’s going to be alright.” 

She shakes her head stubbornly. 

“Hermione,” he says, exasperated, the name slipping past his lips and she stares at him for a split second. 

“I’m scared,” she says, finally. 

“Of Harry?” He asks. 

She shakes her head. “For him.” She stops, takes a breath and says, “Ron’s alright, I’m alright. We see Healers, we can talk. Harry didn’t hurt us on purpose. He didn’t even see us wherever he was. But Harry hurt himself more than any of us can understand. And I’m scared for him.” 

“Go to bed,” he repeats, gently. She looks at the pillow beside Weasley, reluctant longing in her gaze. 

“It’s alright,” he tells her. “I’m not too tired, I barely sleep anyway. I’ll stay awake and if anything happens, I’ll wake you up.” 

She stares at him for a long moment before giggling. “If someone had told me two months ago that I would trust a Malfoy while I went to bed to take care of my boyfriend and my best friend, I’d have them institutionalised.” 

He hears the underlying question beneath the joke. 

“You can trust me.” 

She nods before slipping under the covers. Throwing an arm around Weasley’s waist and murmuring a muffled, “Night, Draco,” she drifts off almost as soon as her head hits the pillow. 

Draco turns back to the fire. 

When he looks up to stretch his neck, he almost screams. In the doorway, the pale figure of Luna Lovegood has silently appeared and has been watching him for Merlin knows how long. 

“Lovegood?” He asks, suspiciously. “Everything alright?” 

She nods. “Harry is sleeping well. I can’t quite catch a wink so I thought I’d pay you a visit. I had a feeling you would be awake.” 

“Would you like to sit?” He asks awkwardly, gesturing to the other armchair by the fire. She moves over, silently and gracefully and sits down. 

They both stare into the fire for a while. 

“Malfoy, would you mind telling me your version of things once, please?” She asks, finally breaking the silence. 

He recounts the tale from the moment he had entered the living room to find it in a mess to the point where him and Hermione had firecalled her to come and at least try to talk Harry into getting help. 

She looks contemplative. “And what about you?” 

He startles at the question. “Me?” 

“You have a half empty bottle of Calming Draught in your pocket and I saw you take a drink from it like it is your favourite bottle of Ogden’s Old.” 

He looks away from her perceptive eyes. “Hermione says I have anxiety.” 

“And what do you say?” 

He shrugs. “I don’t say much, just power through.”  
“Bit hypocritical, Malfoy,” she says. 

He raises his eyebrows. 

“Here you are, dictating Harry should get help for his behaviour but you with what I can only assume is crippling anxiety, see no one and do nothing about it? That sounds hypocritical to me, Malfoy.” 

“Potter demolished half the house. I haven’t done anything like that.” 

“Yet.” 

He turns away, remembering the darkening spiral when he had been in the Dark Lord’s quarters, waking up in the kitchen with Potter hovering over him. He brushes the memory away. 

“I’m alright, Lovegood. I appreciate the concern but I assure you, I don’t need it.” 

“These are good people, Malfoy,” she says quietly. “And I don’t say that because they saved the world. I say that because Harry was my friend when everyone called me Loony Lovegood and stole my things and made fun of the Quibbler. Because Ron pushed me to join Healing School when I needed something, anything to tide me over the death of my friends. Because Hermione taught me charms that kept out strangers from my drawers and strange boys from my bed. These are good people.” She gives him a long, hard stare. “But you? You’ve given me pain. You started calling me Loony Lovegood, you gave Hyacinth Dartmouth the idea of taking my things, the oddities I like to collect and put them out of my reach where the whole school would see them and laugh at them. You sent hate mail to the Quibbler office. I owe you nothing at all but I am telling you, I am advising you to go see someone because I can see you need it.” 

He doesn’t know how to respond. 

“You know I am sorry for all of that, right?” 

“I received the letter.” 

“Someone told me that letter would never be enough. But what I am doing with Hermione, what I am trying to do for the Wizarding World, that is a step towards being enough someday.” He tries to look as earnest as possible. “I took that advice to heart.” 

“That letter was never an apology. Do you know what was?” 

He glances at her questioningly. 

“The extra blankets in the cellar.” 

His breath hitches and his throat closes up at the memory. He had been sent down to give the prisoners food and he had, some extra pieces to those who looked like they needed it, extra broth to the ones shivering. Here he had discovered that Lovegood had developed a hacking cough, an inevitability when one is locked for weeks in a damp cellar. 

In the dead of the night, he had ripped off some of his own coverings from the bed and brought them down to the cellar. She had been asleep but Ollivander awake and he had handed over those blankets to the wand maker with instructions for him to keep Lovegood protected from the damp. 

“I didn’t know you knew.” 

“There could only have been one explanation for fluffy blankets turning up in the middle of the night with D.L.M stamped into the corners.” 

The corners of her lips are twitching as though she is trying to hold back a smile and Draco can’t help it but he bursts out laughing. 

“I had those done every time I got a new blanket because the house elves always confused mine with father’s. And for some reason they used something that made those covers smell like fucking burnt hair and it was so awful that I threw a tantrum just to avoid that,” he tells her between bouts of laughter. 

Suddenly he remembers there are two exhausted individuals lying next to him and laughing loudly probably contradicts the idea of letting them get some well deserved rest. Lovegood catches on and says softly, “Let’s go down to the living room. Neither of us are tired, let’s see if we can fix some of the furniture there.” 

They head down and over Cleaning Charms and Sewing Spells and Air-Clearing Charms, they begin to talk. They talk about things Draco hasn’t been allowed to speak about this freely ever, about his childhood, vacations in France, his mother, his love of the Slytherin Common Room, his secret love for Charms which seems to delight Lovegood to no end. She talks about her father and how they started the Quibbler and some very strange animals Draco has never heard of. 

She talks about Ginny Weasley with a sort of hidden longing and when she catches Draco staring, admits to having been in love with her for years but never doing anything about it because she belonged with Harry. And perhaps she senses his pain at those words because the next thing he knows, he is talking about how he doesn’t understand it too well but there is something about Harry that draws Draco to him like a moth to a flame. How he had stopped wanting anything after the War but Harry had whirled his way into his life and made him desire all over again. How he is afraid that Harry’s friendship had just been residual guilt or fear or whatever drove him to this madness today. How he hasn’t been this happy since third year and all just because Hermione Granger and Harry Potter decided to make a routine for him and Ron Weasley decided to cook him lunch on Wednesdays and Fridays. How he is terrified he will lose all of it after today. 

They share a melancholy look of mirrored sadness and keep talking till dawn arrives with its new light and chirping birds in the garden at the back. Then they fall onto the repaired couch and with a satisfied sigh, look at the fixed furniture, the restored picture frames, the repaired mantel and fall asleep side by side, Draco feeling lighter than he has in what seems to be an eternity. 

When Harry wakes up again, the sluggishness has receded, as has the headache. His throat is still parched but there is a glass of water on the bedside table to fix that up. He looks around to realise they put him up in a guest bedroom, one of the only ones fixed up to house a guest. Unable to adjust to the feeling of being a guest in his own home, he gets up, stretches his legs and finds his way out onto the landing. 

He’s hungry, actually ravenous from having exerted himself and his magic to the fullest yesterday. It is not ideal but hunger is something Harry hasn’t felt in so long that the accompanying sense of misplaced elation gives him a rush that makes him bound down the stairs into the living room when he remembers– he had totally trashed this place yesterday. But the he looks around, everything seems to be alright, just a few pictures out of place here and there. 

That’s when he notices. Two blonde heads on the couch (which Harry remembers being ripped up with the stuffing flying around), side by side, resting against each other. He walks around the couch and sure enough, Luna and Draco are sleeping side by side, leaning against each other, wands in hand, looking exhausted. 

Harry can feel the physical pain in his chest. 

The girl he considers a little sister and the man he wants more than he has wanted anything in a very long time, sleeping on the couch, side by side, looking for all the world like they belong on his couch. 

And he realises with a jolt, that they do. 

They belong here. 

Draco protected all of them yesterday, Draco held together what he considers his family. And Luna, Luna had faced him even after everything he had done, told him the truths and helped him face them. And after that, if there is anywhere they belong, it is here. 

They had seen him in tatters, shreds of a real person and instead of running or leaving, they had stayed and fixed up not only him but also the mess he made. Of his people and of his home. A lump rises in his throat as he watches the two of them sleep, chests rising and falling in unison. Draco raises a hand in his sleep and brushes away a stray lock of hair from his forehead and all Harry wants to do is pick him up, take him to bed, tuck him in, kiss his forehead and when it is time, wake him slowly, with his mouth on his dick.  
The fact that he can even think those thoughts should fill him with relief at the knowledge that he isn’t quite so broken as to not appreciate a great thing but instead it fills him with shame. More likely than not, Draco will not want a thing to do with him anymore. He will probably still come around to Grimmauld for Hermione’s sake and maybe even Ron’s but after what he had seen Harry do… it is unlikely he will open up the Manor gates to him again at the mere promise of blueberry muffins or cheese omelettes or strawberry pancakes. And yet, here he is, wanting him like some shameless, inconsiderate… 

A hand on his shoulder startles him terribly. He looks around to see Ron standing behind him, a patented glare fixed on his face. He lowers his eyes to the ground, hoping Ron doesn’t shout at him here because that would wake up the two of them on his couch but also expecting a dressing down, a reprimand, a falling out with his best friend. 

So when Ron pulls him into a strong bear hug, it takes Harry some time to process what the bloody hell is going on. Instead of cold words or shouted insults, Ron is whispering in his ear, you bloody fool, you scared us, why won’t you just fucking talk to us, Harry, mate, we fucking love you, and Harry feels the tears come to his eyes. 

He pulls out of Ron’s embrace, drags him by the elbow into the kitchen, stares him in the face for a moment, searching out the spot on his forehead where he had been bleeding to find no trace of it whatsoever and then wraps his arms around his waist and stays there. Ron laughs softly before hugging him back, murmuring you fucking idiot over and over again and Harry knows they will be okay. He has guilt to work through, pain, anger, misery and guilt but they will be okay. 

And when a third pair of arms wrap around them from the side, Hermione’s bushy hair tickling Harry’s nose and her voice saying Ron is too tall for his own bloody good, Harry laughs through his tears and doesn’t pull away up until Ron complains saying, “Harry, there’s snot on my damn t-shirt, mate!”


	10. Unbelievable Sights

Draco realises Potter is avoiding him when he doesn’t turn up at the Manor on both Wednesday and Friday. 

On Wednesday, he thought that maybe he needed more time to himself and couldn’t face Draco just yet but when he misses Friday as well, Draco knows Harry is avoiding him purposefully. Slightly hurt and not entirely sure what to do about it, he firecalls Hermione and asks if Harry is in. She says no loudly but nods her head yes to indicate that Harry can hear the question and doesn’t want her to tell Draco. 

It hurts more than he thought he would. 

Feeling lonely for the first time in six weeks in his Manor, Draco wanders around, feeling lost. He has cleaned out every room, even the ones he was afraid to step into and now he has nothing left to do. The Manor, Draco thinks, is something like those Muggle museums Hermione drags him to. Beautiful objects placed in every room to impress viewers and guests, meant to be looked at, not touched. Never touched. 

He finds himself in the library and wanders through the shelves of books, knowing each as intimately as the back of his hand. He has grown up here, learning to read from ancient Potions tomes, words he did not understand, could not pronounce, but got excited by anyway. His godfather, Severus, always knew exactly which portion of the library to send him to when he was in one of his moods. When he grew frustrated by his father’s demands, he would be asked to go and spend some time in the section of Wizarding classics. Folklore, fairytales, myths and scenic imagery always calmed him down. Put him in a better mood when facing his father. When he ranted about Potter with real anger blazing in his eyes, Severus would ask him to go and find the ingredients to some very specific potion found only in one specific book. His concentration would be focused on his work, not on Potter. When the Dark Lord had been here, Severus had looked grave and told him to spend as much time possible learning about the Dark Arts. Not to use them but to understand them.To understand exactly what he was dealing with in every room of his childhood home. 

He misses Severus. Not in the way he did just after his death with a fierce aching in his heart and denial raging in his head but instead with the quiet nostalgia that comes with understanding sacrifice. He has watched Weasley suffer the death of his brother and yet he goes through every day with stoic calm that anchors everyone who encounters it. Hermione’s parents are somewhere in Australia and though she misses them, talks about them with a sad smile as though they are dead, she refuses to find them. The memory reversal might be too much for their brains, she claims but sometimes Draco wonders if she is only avoiding explanations. No parent would ever understand why their child erased all their memories, made them different people and sent them off to live somewhere unknown, far away from where they could ensure the safety of their child. For all that it is worth, Hermione’s parents have ceased to exist. 

Harry… a wave of misery travels down Draco’s spine at the thought of Harry. Harry who had been his friend after the war, Harry who brought him pancakes and muffins and cake and tarts for lunch. Harry who helped him clean out Voldemort’s quarter, taking care to remove lingering traces of Dark magic from the floorboards. Harry who solved crosswords with him, or rather talked at him while he solved them, Harry who always came in with full knowledge of every Quidditch match that had taken place in the past few days. 

Harry had been his friend and maybe he is paying the price for wanting him to be more. 

Determination seizes him. It isn’t fair. Harry has been shutting Draco out for a week without justifying it and Draco wants his friend back. He has been raised as the Malfoy scion, the only child of a wealthy, pureblood family. So when he wants something, he hasn’t been taught to be refused. 

He wears grey robes, freshly laundered and pressed out. He feels better in them, more confident. He looks in the mirror and while he is still gaunt from months of eating far too little and sleeping only under the influence of Draught, he has filled out enough with his exposure to the trio to forego the Glamour. 

He hesitates before he removes the Glamour that covers the scars too– the Dark Mark, the Sectumsempra, the slashes on his back from one of Fenrir’s enraged moments. He looks himself in the mirror, runs his hands through his hair one more time and steps through the Floo into Grimmauld. 

Hermione is on the couch reading as usual. She raises her eyebrows when she sees him and teases, “A day early, Draco. The final review dinner is tomorrow, you know.” 

He scowls playfully at her and says, “Who’s cooking today?” 

‘I am,” she replies with a grin. 

“Then I’m not here for dinner at all,” he says, heading for the stairs. 

“Now that’s just unfair!” She calls out and he just laughs. 

He knocks on the door of Harry’s room. It had been completely ruined but Hermione had told him the three of them had managed to fix most of it. It had been Harry’s godfather’s room and he refuses to move out into a different one even if the plaster is strangely chipped in places. 

The door opens and a dishevelled, rumpled Harry steps out with a disgruntled expression, “I told you, ‘Mione I’m not going to go, he doesn’t want to see– oh! Draco!” 

Draco’s heart clenches at the sight. He can’t help but think this must be how Harry looks when he has just woken up and gotten out of bed and his hands almost rise with the strong urge to hold him, to pull him close, to never let this domestic vision of Harry out of his sight again. But he doesn’t, instead he raises one eyebrow and says, “Who doesn’t want to see you, Potter?” 

Harry’s cheeks pink up delectably. “Thought we were sticking to first names now,” he mumbles. 

“Well, pardon me but I thought you were supposed to be at my house on Friday afternoons. Yet, you weren’t. Tell me why I should stick to the first name when you insist on treating me like a stranger?” 

“Draco…” Harry rubs a tired hand across his face “it’s not like that.” 

“Then pray tell how it is.” 

“Ithoughtyoudidntwanttoseeme.”

Draco blinks at the mingled, mumbled syllables that have merged together to form one long string of unintelligible sounds. “I beg your pardon?” 

‘I thought,” Harry enunciates, “you didn’t want to see me.” 

“Harry,” Draco says, exasperated. “I asked after you when I thought you weren’t coming. I ask after you every time Hermione and I talk. What part of that sounds like me not wanting to see you?” 

Harry looks away. “I thought that was you being polite.” 

Draco snorts. “When it comes to you, Potter, when have I ever bothered to be polite?” 

A tentative smile tugs on Harry’s lips. Draco wants to kiss it, taste it, taste the first traces of happiness on Harry’s face. “You do have a point, I believe,” he says finally. “But since you’re here, you might as well come in. I have the Prophet in here somewhere with an unsolved crossword.” 

It is at this moment that Draco’s resolve breaks. He had wanted to keep his distance, let none of his desire show through, let none of his wanting push Harry away from him. If he couldn’t have him the way he wanted him, he could at least have him as a friend. But when Harry smiles at him so openly, so beautifully, like something out of a perfect daydream, Draco can’t hold himself back. 

The minute Harry steps back to let Draco through, he steps in and uses his slight height advantage to grab Harry’s face entirely by surprise. His eyes widen fractionally before Draco is brushing his lips across Harry’s, gently, tenderly, completely at odds with the bruising force with which he keeps ahold of his jaw. After one second of frozen surprise, Harry sighs just slightly against his lips before parting his lips delicately to let Draco’s tongue slip through. They push and pull against each other, Harry’s arms coming up to twine together at the nape of Draco’s neck and Draco’s grip loosening on Harry’s jaw but remaining possessively there none the less as his other hand brushes long fingers through Harry’s tangled hair.  
They prolong it as long as possible, mouths moving against each other’s, slotting together so perfectly that air is a secondary concern to the euphoric feel of the drag of the other’s lips. It isn’t kissing, Draco thinks, seeing stars behind his closed eyelids. This cannot just be kissing because Draco has kissed before and has been kissed before and none of it ever felt like this. This is dying, this is that split second before your soul leaves your body and your entire life flashes before your eyes, your best memories bidding you a fond farewell. This is dying and coming back to life again, knowing you have a second chance to do everything better, to do everything differently from the first time. 

Harry’s lips are soft, slightly bitten and slightly swollen but so beautifully perfect that Draco knows he can stay caught in this moment forever. If lightning was to strike him down right at this second, he would die the happiest man on earth. He nips slightly at Harry’s full lower lip and drinks in his startled gasp. He tastes like pancakes and it is everything Draco has been dreaming of. 

When they part, gasping for breath, Harry’s eyes remain closed while he chases Draco just slightly. Then a blissful smile creeps up onto his lips and his eyelashes flutter slightly. But just before he opens his eyes, just before Draco can lose himself in wave after wave of ecstasy at seeing those green, vibrant eyes look up at him, panic courses through him like a Stunner to the chest. 

He isn’t supposed to do this. He is Draco Malfoy, he cannot, he should not under any circumstances be kissing Harry Potter. Even taking out the whole Death Eater, Saviour complexity out of the equation, what are they left with? Years and years of mutual hatred, death threats, curse scars and hexes. Years and years of wanting nothing but the other gone. A few weeks of being acquainted to each other, knowing nothing but the basics. Harry probably only kissed him back because he didn’t know how to turn him away. Draco had done him a favour when he had Stunned him and helped Hermione through her panic attack and Harry feels too grateful to do something as insulting as turning away someone who kisses you. He hadn’t asked for consent, Harry probably hates him by now. Harry probably thinks he’s trying to take advantage. Harry probably… probably… 

Harry is looking up at him, green, beautiful eyes full of worry asking him Are you alright? Did I do something wrong? 

How can Draco tell him that he didn’t do a thing wrong, that it’s all Draco’s fault? He stares into those eyes and the words come unbidden to him, “Oh Salazar, I’m so sorry! That should never have happened, I shouldn’t have done that. And really, you didn’t have to go along with it. It’s okay to say no, you know.” 

Harry’s brows draw down in confusion but Draco is already backing away repeating, “Fuck, I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, that was a mistake. We’re just idiots, I’m going to leave.” 

He turns, ignoring Harry’s demands to wait and Hermione’s cry of Draco, what’s wrong? and steps into the Floo. The last thing he sees before the flames obscure Grimmauld Place is Harry standing in the middle of the staircase looking like someone just shifted the ground out from underneath him. 

 

Harry stands in the middle of the staircase, lips tingling and watches Draco run away from him into the flames. He ignores Hermione but just before the flames turn back to orange, those grey eyes meet his across the living room. Even in that one split second, the regret he sees in them is so profound that it is enough to bring him to his knees. 

He almost slides down the staircase but Hermione races up just in time to catch him. Her voice is laced with worry, “Harry? What happened? Harry, get up, what on earth just happened?” 

He looks up at her, sees her face tight with concern and fear and numbly says, “Draco kissed me.” 

“Oh!” Hermione’s hands fly up to her mouth and when she brings them away, there’s a wide, bright smile there. “Oh! Finally!” Then the situation catches up to her, Draco running away, Harry on the floor and her eyes widen. “Didn’t you want him to?!” 

Harry shakes his head to clear it. There’s a fog over his thoughts, a veil that isn’t letting him process everything that just happened. The fact that Draco gave him the kiss of his life and then ran away from him, apologising, swearing and saying it had been a mistake. Harry knows he should feel something but all he can feel is the reminder of Draco’s warm, chapped lips moving against his and the pressure of his spine against Harry’s fingertips. His emotions are all hidden behind that veil and for some reason, it won’t budge. 

“Harry?” Hermione asks again. “Didn’t you want him to?” 

Oh. That question. Of course he wanted him to. He had wanted it more than anything else, wanted it with every fibre of his body, mind and soul. He had wanted it so bad that when Draco had first initiated the contact, he had thought it was another one of his fantasies, only more elaborate. 

But in none of his fantasies did Draco react like this after. 

He nods his head to answer Hermione’s question. 

“You wanted him to?” 

He nods again. 

“Then what happened?” She asks, looking as confused as he feels. 

He shoots her a blank stare and shrugs. 

“Did you tell him you wanted it?” She asks this time, no doubt trying to solve the puzzle, answer the question, balance the equation. That’s what she does.  
“I kissed him back,” Harry says and a ghost of a smile flits across his lips. “Oh, I kissed him back.” 

“Then why…” 

“Your guess is as good as mine.” 

She doesn’t know what to do. Harry can tell from the way her forehead is crinkled, her fingers are drumming against her thighs, the way she’s blinking much too fast. To be honest, he doesn’t blame her. He wants to tell her she doesn’t need to figure it out, that he will be fine but what comes out instead is, “I want to be alone.” 

“Oh. Oh yes, of course,” Hermione says immediately. “Do you want anything else at all? Something to drink or eat or something? Anything?” 

A bottle of whisky would be good but there are already two of those in his room so he shakes his head. 

She nods jerkily and heads back downstairs, looking up at him every few seconds. Eventually, finding the strength in his knees, he stands up and climbs the stairs back to his room. There he pauses at the threshold. The exact place that Draco had gripped his jaw and pulled him closer. The moment Harry had known that he would be kissed and had wanted nothing else. 

He closes his eyes and enters the room and bangs the door shut behind him. Then he falls to the floor at that spot where they had been standing, at the spot where Draco had tracked ash into the room from the Floo. At the spot where they had been kissing and Harry had been certain that his dreams were coming true, finally. 

He Accios a bottle of whisky from underneath the bed. It’s a Muggle brand but it burns fiercer than Firewhisky. He takes a swig straight from the bottle and revels in the way his throat seems to have been set aflame. He tries to wash away the taste of Draco from his mouth, feeling dirty, unwanted, used up but the scent of cinnamon and vanilla lingers on his upper lip and fills his nostrils with the scent. With every drink he tries to make it go away but it only gets stronger. Stronger. Stronger. Until all he can smell is Draco’s vanilla shampoo and his cinnamon shower gel, until the grey of those eyes takes over the world around Harry, until those soft hairs at the nape of his neck are all Harry can feel.

The veil lifts, the haze covering his emotions shifts away with the gulps of drink he takes. It all hits him at once, the euphoria of having been kissed so thoroughly, so magnificently. The bliss of that one perfect moment after they had broken apart with Harry’s eyes still closed, Draco’s breath ghosting over his lips, his fingers still stroking Harry’s jaw gently. 

The utter confusion at seeing Draco’s eyes widen in horror, his own horror when he realises that Draco probably hadn’t done this because he wanted to, had only kissed him because he had ended up being too obvious about his attraction and Draco, out of obligation had kissed him. And immediately after, regretted it. 

The pain at hearing him apologise, call it a mistake. Tell him he shouldn’t have gone along with it. Tell him it was okay to say no as though Harry could even imagine saying no to such spectacular kissing, not to mention he had been wanting it for weeks. 

The cold in his insides at knowing he had cocked up a good thing right in front of him without even trying. Without doing anything but kissing the man he wanted, he man he dreamed of, back. 

The chill in his bones when Draco had run away. 

The regret that he hadn’t gotten to say a word to Draco before he had run away. 

And the shame. 

Oh the burning, burning shame. The shame of not being desirable, not being wanted, not being enough.


	11. Indescribable Feeling

When Weasley turns up at his door looking furious and ready to use a Killing Curse, Draco knows he is in for it. He opens the door and braces himself for a Stinging Hex or a Mutilation Spell or an exploding potion being thrown in his face but instead receives a strong sock to his jaw that makes him crash to the floor, hit his head and see stars. Weasley crouches down, heals his jaw with a rapid Healing spell, waits a few seconds for it to set and then without warning, socks him in the jaw again. 

“What the actual fuck were you thinking?” Weasley asks him, his hands clenched, his brows furrowed and his lips set into a thin line. 

“I clearly wasn’t,” Draco says, mumbling through the blinding pain in his teeth. 

Weasley tuts and casts another Healing Spell and Draco sighs in relief even though a slight twinge remains. 

“I’m not going to apologise because you deserved that.” To the point, concise. 

“To be honest,” Draco admits, “I was expecting worse.” 

Weasley grumbles unintelligibly under his breath, something that sounds like And there’s the difference between your kind and mine.

“It’s been three days, Malfoy. Not a word from you, not a sound, not a call. You just disappeared, blocked your Floo and turned away all the owls Hermione sent. What on earth is the matter with you? You do something like that and then don’t even bother to apologise?!” 

Draco sighs. “I just didn’t think he would want to hear from me. I would have written an apology but after he had time to come back from it.” 

Weasley shoots him a strange look. “Malfoy, I don’t know where you’ve been brought up but in our world, people do nothing but wait for an apology. Hope it’s a mistake, a spur of the moment thing, want some reassurance. And while he’s been waiting, he’s been drowning himself in whisky of all kinds. His room smells like a bar and he isn’t even sober when he sleeps.” 

The last bit of hope that Draco was holding on to, that Harry might still be alright, that Harry is better off without hearing from him fades away, leaving Draco feeling like scum at the bottom of a shoe. Repeatedly slamming his head against the wall, he tries to feel like less of a bastard but all his efforts go to waste. He feels like even more of one instead. 

When on one particularly hard hit, he winces pathetically, Weasley pulls him away from the wall. “How is that helping?” He demands to know. “Because while you’re here, damaging whatever is left of your brains, my best friend is drowning in alcohol. I had one brother recover from that shit, I won’t have another going down the same path. Go to him and apologise. He’s Harry, if you have a good enough reason, he’ll give you the benefit of the doubt.” 

“A good enough reason for violating consent? For not even asking for it? What are you on about, Weasley? I would think with Granger as your girlfriend, you would know there aren’t any good enough reasons for things like that.” When Weasley remains conspicuously silent, he goes on, “I’m not going to apologise. I’m going to apologise and hope that one day he can look at me without wanting to spit in my face.” 

He turns around to look at Weasley, more than prepared to go on but the look on his face stops him short. “What?” He asks, warily. Weasley simply stares, eyes wide, jaw dropped, gaping like a fish and looking absolutely dumbstruck. “What’s the matter? Did I say something wrong?” 

“Malfoy, you–” Weasley breaks off, gathers his thoughts with conscious effort and tries again. “What exactly do you think you need to apologise for?” 

Draco stares at him. “Oh. Oh Salazar. He didn’t tell what happened? He didn’t tell you what…” 

“No he told us. But I’m asking you. What do you want to apologise for?” 

“Uh,” Draco begins, feeling slightly incredulous, “Invading his personal space without permission? Kissing him without permission? Continuing it without checking to see if he’s alright? Having no regard whatsoever for consent?” 

Weasley continues to gape. Then he does the strangest thing and starts laughing. It starts off as a giggle and then it moves on to stifled laughter and then suddenly Weasley is clutching at his side and rolling on the floor hysterically shrieking. Alarmed Draco begins to back away when Weasley stops abruptly. He wipes his eyes, looks at Draco and says in a tone of wonder, “You two are a match made in heaven.” 

Draco is so surprised that he doesn’t know how to react. 

Weasley takes two very deep breaths and says, “You’ve got it all wrong. Yes, I agree, before kissing someone, you should ask them if they are okay with it, if you should do it. But you didn’t. But here’s the deal, Malfoy, Harry wanted it. He wanted it again. And again. And again. And instead, you ran away like he had burned you so he thought the worst. That you had made a bad, impulsive decision and regretted it immediately.” 

Draco stares. His words have escaped him. He opens his mouth but he has been stunned into total silence by this revelation. Finally he breathes, “Harry wants it?” 

“Well you have spent two days wallowing in misconceptions here and he has been drowning in drink so I don’t know what he wants right now but I would assume so, yes. He wants it. Now, Malfoy, would you please come with me and set the record straight?” 

Draco can’t think of anything else he would rather do. 

They Floo to Grimmauld where Hermione is waiting, wand raised with a murderous expression on her face. “Draco Malfoy, who do you think you are–” but Weasley holds up a placating hand. 

“There’s a valid explanation, Mione. Let Malfoy handle Harry and I’ll tell you about it.” 

Hermione shoots him a suspicious glare but lets him pass by anyway to access the stares. 

He knocks on Harry’s door, heart beating fast with anticipation, remembering what had happened the last time he had been in this position. But instead of Harry opening the door, a slurred voice calls from within, “Gooo ‘way, ‘Mioneee. ‘M gettin’ drunk off my arse and you can’t stop meee.” 

Draco feels the beginnings of horror creeping in. He had expected a somewhat inebriated Harry but this, this sounds like someone who has only been drinking for three days straight. He knocks again. 

“Roooooon? Wanna drink, may- moo- I mean, I mean, mateee?” 

Realising that knocking was a no go, he clears his throat and says, “Harry, it’s me.” 

Inside, Harry laughs. “Hahahaha, Mione. Very funny. Tryin’ tryin’a sound like Mal- Malfa- Malfoy. I’m not opening.” 

“Harry, it isn’t Hermione, it’s actually me. Would you please open the door? I don’t want to use magic.” 

Harry giggles. “You already know you can’t open it with magic. You tried, re-re-remember?” He hiccups loudly. “Do ya know what hap, happened the last time Malboi came, came, knock knock? He kisssssed me. All sweet an’ gentle an’ soft. An’ I thought,” he breaks into a fit of hiccups, “thought my dreams, thy were comin’ true! An’ I kissed ‘im back. An’ kissed an’ kissed.” Here he pauses and starts sobbing, “‘An he left me! Like erryone else! Ran away!” 

Draco’s heart clenches so painfully that he thinks it will be shrivelled forever. “Harry,” he says. “I came back.” 

There’s silence at the other end. “N-no. They ne’er do.” 

“But I did. Open the door and you can see for yourself.” 

“I’ll open the dor justa prove ya wrong,” Harry says gleefully. A few seconds and some crashes later, the door creaks open. Harry blearily blinks into the light and rubs his eyes vigorously. “An’ now I’m seein’ things,” he says mournfully. He sways and instinctively Draco reaches out to support him. With his hand around his waist, Draco takes in the sight of Harry. A three-day diet of alcohol has darkened the hollows under his eyes and his skin is pallid. He looks awful and reeks of whisky and yet the confused, bewildered man in his arms is the most beautiful sight Draco has ever witnessed. 

“Are ya hal-hala-hallucinoculation?” Harry asks him plaintively. 

“No,” Draco says. “I’m real, and I came back because it was just a really bad misunderstanding.” 

“Mis-misunderstanding,” repeats Harry slowly. Draco nods. 

“And now, I’m going to take that bottle out of your hands, give you a Sobering Potion, rub your back while you puke, make you take a cold shower and then put you to bed. Does that sound good?” 

Harry contemplates all of it for a moment and then vigorously shakes his head no. 

Draco shrugs. “Too bad, Potter, it’s happening.” 

 

When the Sobering Potion begins to course through his veins, the burning sensation first tingles slightly and then begins to hurt. It is mighty unpleasant and he fails to hide his wince while he feels the contents of his stomach rising to his throat, cleansing his blood of the alcohol remnants. 

He throws up too many times to count and when his chest finally stops heaving, he collapses on the floor, sweaty and exhausted. He wants to cry, he feels fucking awful- his head hurts, his body aches, his throat feels scratched raw when the door to the toilet opens and Draco steps back in. 

He’s holding a washcloth which he presses to the nape of Harry’s neck and the relief he feels is so pleasurable and instantaneous that he sighs softly, letting his stiff muscles relax. Before he knows what’s happening, Draco has pulled his head into his lap and is carding his fingers gently, softly, through Harry’s hair, pressing his nails slightly against his scalp. His matted, knotted hair which he realises from the contact has become sweaty and disgusting. 

“‘M hair,” he mumbles, trying to warn Draco, sure that he doesn’t want three days worth of gunk on his nails. Draco simply shushes him and keeps doing what he’s doing and the protest dies on Harry’s lips. It feels too good to give up. 

“You want to go sleep if off?” Draco asks Harry after a few minutes. “I’ll let you take a shower now and after, you can go to bed.”

The idea of a shower holds definite appeal. Cool hair, cleanliness, maybe some soap. But the effort it will take for him to stand… Harry doesn’t want to bother. 

“No shower,” he gets out. 

Draco tuts. “No, Potter. You want some sleep and want me around, you’re getting in and taking a damn shower. You reek. Can I trust you to stand up and not fall over for the ten minutes I will be leaving you alone?” 

Harry nods wearily. There is no arguing with the man when he is in a mood. 

Draco gets up and helps Harry to his feet. While Harry leans against the wall, Draco turns the taps and adjusts the temperature, asking Harry to test it himself. When he deems it appropriate, he turns around and says, “Shower. Then some food if you want. And then bed. Are we clear?” 

“Absolutely,” Harry murmurs, keeping his eyes closed. 

“Good.”  
After he’s done bathing (which he decides was one of Draco’s better ideas because he feels much better) and gets under the covers of the freshly made bed, Draco who’s been hovering to ensure Harry doesn’t pass out or hit his head against something says, “I’m going to go downstairs for a bit. Do you mind?”

Rationally he knows that Draco’s probably just going down to speak to Hermione or get some food or something but his screwed brain screams don’t let go, don’t let go over and over again. 

So instead of letting Draco go and get his lunch or whatever, Harry reaches out and almost childishly grips at his wrist and mumbles, “Stay,” hoping Draco listens. “At least till I fall asleep.” As an afterthought he adds, “Please?” 

Draco in turn takes Harry’s hand in his own and squeezes. It is a warm, reassuring press of skin against his, knowledge that Draco will be there till he sleeps so he doesn’t have to be alone. When he opens his eyes which are too heavy to keep open for too long to take one look to know Draco’s real before he sleeps, he finds him sitting on the bed, staring at him with an expression so intense that Harry feels consumed in a fire he didn’t even know was burning. 

He doesn’t know how long he sleeps but when he wakes up, there’s an arm thrown over his waist and a lean, warm body pressing into his back. Something in his chest hums contentedly, sounding an awful lot like a cheesy Celestina Warbeck song and for a split second, everything is perfect, everything is quiet. He revels in the peace, both outside and in the deepest recesses of his heart, peace that he hasn’t known in his life for longer than he cares to admit to anyone besides himself. 

That is of course until Hermione bursts in, saying, “Hey, Draco, so I was thinking…” She stops when she sees the pair on the bed, eyes widening fractionally as her mouth closes around the words that got abruptly cut off. 

“What time is it?” Harry asks her, keeping his voice low so as to not wake Draco. He stretches out, reaching for his spectacles trying to avoid jostling the sleeping man curled into his back as much as possible. When the blurriness that comes with his lack of vision fades away, and even then all he sees her do is press her hands to her mouth and look to be on the verge of tears, he feels the first premonitions of alarm roiling in his stomach. “Mione? Is everything okay?” 

She takes a moment but eventually nods. “It’s just,” she points vaguely at the two of them in the bed, “you look so happy and you’ve sorted it all out and Harry, I, all I even want to see anymore–” she takes a deep breath, “All I even want for you anymore is hope this lasts while you sort out the other things.” 

Rolling his eyes at her fondly and then allowing her a grateful smile, he repeats himself, “What’s the time, ‘Mione?” 

“It’s seven in the evening,” she says casting a non-verbal Tempus. 

“How long have I been out?” Harry asks, completely unaware of what time it had been when he had asked Draco to stay and fallen asleep with his thumb tracing patterns on Harry’s wrists. A warm feeling erupts in his chest at the reminder of the last look Draco had given him. 

Intense. Passionate. Toe-curling. 

“Maybe six hours?” Hermione ventures with a slight shrug. 

“And Draco?” 

“Probably two. We were doing the final review of the Project proposal and everything is all set. He came up here a while ago to check on you and well, I guess that happened.” 

Almost reflexively, Harry tightens his grip around Draco’s arm. It must have been tighter than he had intended it to be because the next thing he knows, Draco is sitting up ramrod straight in bed and checking his temperature. 

“Hey,” he asks, once satisfied, the hints of a smile playing along the edges of his lips. “Less drunk?” 

Harry can’t stop his own grin from widening when the tips of Draco’s hair gently brush the bridge of his nose. “Marginally.” 

Looking more relieved than he should, Draco bends down and places a chaste kiss on Harry’s forehead. Then he looks anxiously back at Harry and says, ‘Was it okay I did that?” 

“More than,” Harry tells him gently, his heart warming, going dangerously close to bursting. 

Seemingly noticing her for the first time, Draco eventually turns to Hermione still standing in the doorway. “Something you wanted?” 

Having witnessed their entire exchange with growing happiness etched across her features, she shakes her head quickly and says, “I’m going to leave you two alone now. And I’ll come back up to call you down for dinner.” Just before she shuts the door entirely, she turns back to them, winks and says, “Have fun, boys!” 

Harry’s inelegant snort is at great odds with Draco’s snarky, “Don’t you worry Granger, we will.” 

When the door shuts behind her, Draco leans up on one elbow, facing Harry. He reaches out and brushes a stray lock of hair away from where it had caught on Harry’s frames. 

“That was some three days” he says after spending a few seconds simply staring at Harry’s face as though he is trying to memorise every inch of it, commit it perfectly to memory. When the words register their meaning, Harry huffs a laugh. 

“You’re telling me.” 

“Why did you even have that much whisky in your room?” Harry can’t tell from his tone of voice if he is in for getting his arse handed to him on a platter or merely about to satisfy Draco’s latent curiosity. 

“Some Muggle-born’s father sent it to me right after the War. I kept them under the bed and sort of forgot but well…” he smiles up at Draco sheepishly. Draco’s unreadable expression doesn’t shift at all even though his eyes flicker with something. 

“We need to talk,” Draco says after a beat, all sense of humour gone from the words. “What happened in these past few days, the successive disasters, they can’t keep happening. If I could have my way, it would happen ever again.” 

“Can’t we postpone this talk?” Harry asks. He knows he’s being a coward and that admission feels foreign and tastes bitter on his tongue but he wants to avoid this. He wants to avoid telling Draco the true extent of the damage done here, wants to hide from the reality. This moment, this perfect moment with them sharing body heat in a quiet, cozy room with no interruptions, no more unhappy resentment or untold desires– when faced with the prospect of losing it, Harry wants to dig his heels in and refuse to do anything that would enable that. And the impending conversation will do exactly that. 

“No,” Draco says, to Harry’s unsurprised resignation. “We’ll get caught up in, in other things and we need to say these things. We need to talk.” 

“Other things sound pretty good if we’re being honest,” Harry murmurs, looking up through his eyelashes, hoping against hope the tactic works. 

“Potter,” Draco groans. Harry smiles innocently at him. 

Instead of admitting defeat the way Harry had hoped Draco would, Draco’s expression turns stern. “Potter, if we don’t talk, I’m not going to let whatever this is get much further. If we don’t have a conversation, there won’t be other things.” 

It’s Harry’s turn to groan. “Merlin, fine,” he concedes. “Talk. What do you want to say?” 

Draco looks him in the eye, takes a deep breath and says, “I have anxiety.” Harry gapes at him, the surprise of the unexpected words knocking the wind out of him even though he’s lying down. The candour with which Draco admits to it after so many weeks of avoiding calling his panic attacks panic attacks, avoiding admitting he needs to see someone, avoiding every hard thing that can be avoided when it comes to himself, is startling. He’s about to open his mouth and respond to that but Draco soldiers on, giving him no time to pause and formulate a reply. “I have anxiety, I get frequent panic attacks, I get triggered by small, inconsequential things and I need help. I need help. It is bad, it can get to the point where I black out, it can get to the point where I might start screaming nonsense, it already has gotten to the point where I am Calming Draught dependent. It isn’t an addiction but without it, I have no control over the anxiety. At all. And if we go anywhere with this, you need to be prepared for all that.” He takes a deep breath, exhales slowly and avoids Harry’s eyes pointedly. 

At some point during that admission, a no doubt painful, wringing, heart wrenching admission, Harry had grasped onto Draco’s clenched hand beneath the covers, gently pried apart the fingers and twined them together. Now Harry brings their conjoined hands out and kisses Draco’s fingers where they contrast beautifully against his own skin. 

“Alright,” he says, quietly. “Alright.” 

“That’s all you’re going to say?” Draco asks, almost indignant. 

“For now. When those situation come up, when you’re triggered, when you’re upset and you’re spiralling, I’ll say more. And after, you’ll tell me what happened so I know how to avoid it or deal with it the next time. And you’re going to get help and you’re going to learn how to be better and everything,” he says, trying to push his conviction into his voice, “will be alright.” 

Draco swallows and jerkily nods. “Thank you,” he says before turning to fully look at him. His eyes are slightly glossy but Harry doesn’t draw attention to that fact. “Your turn.” 

His immediate instinct is to deny. To say he’s alright, he’s just been tired, to lash out and say he’s entitled to being tired at the very least. It is what he has done in the past but the moment those words rise to his mouth, unbidden and automatic, he tamps down on them. He thinks of Draco laying himself open and vulnerable, saying things that must have hurt him to even think about. 

He has to pull himself together. 

Harry takes a minute to gather his thoughts. “I’m… angry,” he begins and is astounded by the weight that seems to lift from his shoulders when he says it out loud. “All the time. And when I’m not angry, I’m…” he reaches for a word before settling on, “numb. I want to break things or cast advanced spells which require magical exertion and watch things crumble because it makes me feel some sense of,” he stumbles for a word again, “satisfaction.” 

He takes a minute to remember the first few blurry weeks after the War. Going to see a Mind Healer for at least a week was Ministry mandated. He remembers the pale lilac robes of the Healer he had gone to, the soft voice and probing questions. The tumultuous rage at being asked to talk about things he only wanted to forget. 

“I spoke to a Healer after the War and she said I had something called PTSD. I didn’t go to her again so I never found out how to deal with it or even what it was. I just… went coasting and hoped it would be fine.” He hesitates before saying, “Maybe sometimes even hoping I would be anything but fine.” Draco’s hand tightens in his, whether in solidarity or empathy, he doesn’t yet know. Perhaps both. “I went again after what happened here. Luna asked me to. The man I went to said it was PTSD as well. Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, they call it. Almost everyone has it after that damned War, but mine manifests as the sort of extreme violence you saw the other day. I have triggers that I don’t even know about because of my… childhood. Something about repressed memories. And I still need to figure out who I am outside of Voldemort. Outside of the boy who killed him twice and fought him too many times to count and disarmed him in a battle. I need to be Harry and I can’t deal with expectations.” 

Draco looks at him for a moment before smiling softly. “I’m proud of you.” 

Harry doesn’t think it should but that one statement makes having said all of those things he couldn’t say to his best friends worth it.  
“I need to see a Healer regularly. A Mind Healer,” Draco says after a while. “And I’d like you to come with me for some sessions so you know what to do if things get out of control.” 

“Of course,” Harry whispers, pulling him closer. “And you should know I’m already seeing one.”

“Okay.” 

“Alright.” 

“Harry?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Those other things we were talking about before? Those sound pretty great right now.”


	12. Soaring, Tumbling, Freewheeling

“Harry?” 

“Yeah?” 

“Those other things we were talking about before? Those sound pretty great right now.”

He says those words and waits with bated breath. It is perhaps too soon. They haven’t even been on a date together. But after seeing each other the way they have, Draco doesn’t think dinner at a fancy place in Diagon really matters. Moreover, if meals constitute dates, they’ve been having lunch dates for close to seven weeks now. 

Harry turns on his side to look at him, eyes darkening slightly. “What other things?” He asks, voice low. 

Instead of having an appropriate answer ready, Draco is completely unprepared for the question. “Um– uh– I mean– you know what I mean– you know, sex! Sex, I mean, sex!”

And then he blushes up till the tips of his ears. 

He notices Harry trying his hardest not to laugh into the pillow and shoves him hard in the shoulder. Instead of stopping and apologising the way he should, Harry starts laughing loudly, eyes shining and nose quivering.

“Fine.” Draco says in mock outrage. ‘If that’s how it’s going to be.” 

Harry pulls him closer until they are almost nose to nose. “Draco,” he says, breath falling in gusts over Draco’s lips. “We’ve kissed once. I would indeed love to have sex,” and at this juncture he wiggles his eyebrows and Draco swats him on the nose, “but let’s please just enjoy this for a while, alright?” And then their lips are on each other’s, mouths slotting together, tongues twining and touching. Draco feels Harry smile against his mouth and sucks his lower lip in before gently nipping it. He revels in the ensuing gasp, wanting to elicit more of those noises, wanting to keep inhaling the sounds Harry makes when he’s being pleasured, wanting to remember the spots where when touched his breath hitches slightly and the spots which touched make his whole body jerk under Draco’s ministrations. He traces his lips gently down Harry’s jaw, and sucks at the juncture where his neck and jaw meet, a smooth expanse of brown skin, unbroken by scars that otherwise litter almost every part of Harry’s beautiful, beautiful body. Harry shudders slightly at the feeling, gripping Draco’s hair so tight that tears spring to his eyes.

It’s perfect. 

After a few minutes of Draco patterning Harry’s neck with bruises where he licks around an oval scar between Harry’s collarbones, just above his chest, traces the sharp jut of their curves with his tongue and tastes the salt on Harry’s skin, revelling in the citrusy scent he has grown so accustomed to these days, Harry raises himself on his elbows and in one smooth motion straddles Draco’s hips. He’s heavy in a way that makes Draco feel held down, protected from floating away, anchored in a moment that feels far too good to be reality. They lean forward into each other, kissing some more, sometimes deeply and gently, apologies and admissions in their touch, sometimes with teeth and sharp edges and bites which offer the edge Draco so desperately needs to feel good. It’s all in those kisses, the unspoken words, the I want you’s and the I’m sorry’s, the please don’t let this ever end and this is what heaven tastes like. When it comes Harry’s turn to paint on the pristine canvas that is Draco’s skin, he traces his tongue down Draco’s throat, over the bob of his Adam’s apple to the hollow between his collarbones. Here he bites down and Draco gasps and digs his nails into Harry’s cotton pyjama shirt. Harry keeps at it, first flicking his tongue over a spot delicately, then biting down on it, pinching a sliver of skin between two teeth and then sucking until Draco is a writhing mess underneath him. 

“Stop,” Draco says, breathless and flushed, arching wantonly. 

Harry immediately draws away. “Something wrong?” He asks, frowning. 

Draco simply lies there on the bed panting and trying to catch his breath. “No,” he says eventually, when he can trust his voice to not crack and his brain to not allow him to blurt out just how close he is to coming in those few words. “Absolutely not. In fact, quite the opposite. If we want to take this slow, you can’t go beyond that. That was…”

‘Phenomenal?” Harry teases, catching on to what Draco is trying to get at. “Magnificent? Exciting? One-of-a-kind?” 

“I was going for intense but all of those work fairly well too,” Draco says with a smirk. “Lucky me, you know?” 

“Prat,” says Harry, but there’s no bite behind his words. Instead, there’s a ready smile on his lips as his blown pupils slowly return to normal, his eyes beginning to turn back to the forest green Draco so enjoys from the almost black that made him weak at the knees. 

“Knob,” he returns. 

They lie in bed, tracing absent patterns on each other’s arms and chests. Occasionally they talk. They skirt the heavier topics, the War, Voldemort, the Manor, dead relatives. But they’re not avoiding them. A day will come soon, Draco knows, when they will get to understand each other’s pasts better, but today, while they lie in bed together and Draco conjures the night sky with his wand to teach Harry constellations, is not that day. 

 

The day for those discussions draws near fairly soon. 

It begins as an inconspicuous Wednesday at the Manor. 

They have reverted to their weekly routine, only they meet more frequently than three times a week. Sometimes at the Manor, sometimes at Grimmauld and sometimes in Muggle cafes where no one knows who Draco is and when he drops the Glamour, only a few people barely cast a glance at the Mark on his arm. 

He doesn’t need to hide it around Harry or Hermione and Weasley and since they are his excuse for socialising these days, Draco has stopped Glamouring altogether. There is no point hiding from them, no point making his past a secret. They are all too well acquainted with it. 

But the arm Glamour was a blanket Glamour that covered all of Draco’s scars and Draco, having been in the places he has been, has a lot of scars. When one is the youngest, most susceptible member of a house invaded by growling beasts and maniacs hungry and baying for blood, one becomes the obvious target. 

Draco knows that because that is what he was. 

He has a barely healed claw mark on his shoulder where Greyback had angrily swiped at him once. It doesn’t hurt but Draco doesn’t like looking at it or touching it. When his fingers accidentally brush against it, he has conditioned himself to jerk them away. It reminds him of too many nights spent in fear, trembling alone in a room in the darkness, afraid to sleep because he might wake up to the rank smell of rotting flesh standing atop him. There’s a scar on the back of his calf from where Bella had electrocuted him in a fit of rage at her husband. Only Draco had been available to bear the brunt of her wand. 

There are innumerable others from other Death Eaters, some taking out their frustration while others did a victory run on his skin. Some parts of his flesh have no scars, no marks but they are more tender than they should be. There’s Crucio Curse damage but that’s minor in comparison to what others have suffered. Just some trembling when he uses his right hand too extensively.

And then there’s the one that Draco doesn’t know how to feel about. 

The scar goes right across his torso, a careless slash of angry magic. It stretches from above his right nipple and ends somewhere close to his hip. It is a thin but prominent line, a reminder of his sixth year, his failures and shortcomings and his supposed victories which were again, failures. Perhaps greater ones because betrayal is the greatest failure of them all. 

He looks at it sometimes, studies it. Once he could bring himself to look in the mirror again, he had spent an hour tracing it with his fingernails, remembering the cold floor of the bathroom against his back, the sensation of sticky blood getting everywhere, Snape’s furious eyes watching over him, murmuring spells, pouring potions. 

But out of it all what he remembers most clearly is the relief. The relief that maybe the end has finally come, that the impossible task has been taken out of his hands by Potter. And he remembers being grateful to Potter in those moments when the pain hadn’t quite settled in and death seemed to be a blissful fantasy. He hadn’t spiralled, thinking about it, strangely enough. He hadn’t swigged Draught like water. For once he had been able to think about something difficult without passing out. 

And so when he lifts the Glamour and keeps it away in his box of memories of a time he would rather lock away, the Glamour leaves his scars naked and exposed under the unreliable protection of clothing. 

Harry and Draco haven’t gone beyond the stage of making out. Deep, heavy making out with hands crawling up each other’s shirts and down each other’s pants, making out that leaves their lips swollen, their necks bruised and mottled with love bites, their hair in spectacular disarray, their cocks hard in their tight, constricting pants and their breaths coming in short bursts. 

To be honest, Draco has no idea how they are holding off for so long but every minute seems to be building up, seems to be setting into motion the grander scheme of things. Draco might be impatient but he knows that whatever is coming is definitely worth the wait. 

Which is why he doesn’t pay attention to when their conversation goes from Abraxan horses that his grandfather had specially made stables for in the barn to Harry’s hands on his buttons and his lips on his earlobe. He only realises that Harry is no longer touching him, no longer kissing down his sensitive, tingly ear when a draught passing through the windows touches on the exposed trails on his skin, cooling them in fashion he isn’t particularly fond of. 

He opens his eyes and instead of seeing Harry doing something with his own self for Draco’s viewing pleasure as he had hoped he would, he finds Harry staring open mouthed at his exposed chest, gripping his shirt with both hands and looking so shocked that Draco winces at his own stupidity. 

“I’m so sorry,” he murmurs, trying his best to be soothing, dragging his fingers down the nape of Harry’s neck. “I should have warned you.” 

Dumbfounded, Harry stares at him, his eyes wide and terrified. 

“I, I didn’t know,” he whispers, sounding so upset and childlike that Draco almost forgets about his erection in favour of drawing Harry into his arms. 

He grips the sides of Harry’s face and turns the trembling chin up and says fiercely, “It’s done, alright? It’s the past. It’s irrelevant now, just a scar in my collection of them.” 

“I didn’t know,” Harry repeats, still sounding lost and broken. “I really didn’t know.” 

“Didn’t know what?” 

“What that spell did.” 

Trying for humour, Draco says, “Well now you do. And maybe you’ll aim better next time.” 

It falls horrifyingly flat. 

“Harry,” he finally sighs. “We’ve all made mistakes. You just have a reminder of yours staring you in the face right now.” 

Swallowing, Harry nods jerkily, unable to dispute the point. 

“I didn’t know it scarred.” 

“Snape was in time to save my life, not to make me look pretty,” Draco says, sharper than intended. He’s had that comment flung his way before as though being scarred is something to be ridiculed.Then knowing Harry didn’t mean it quite like that, he softens and says, “I didn’t want you to react like this. It’s alright.” 

“Does it still hurt?” 

“No,” Draco shakes his head. ‘It’s just a scar.” 

“Just a scar,” Harry swallows. 

“Just a scar,” Draco whispers, meeting Harry’s eyes. Impulsively he reaches up to trace the lightning scar on Harry’s forehead with the tip of his fingers. “Just like this one.” 

Harry swallows again before boldly reaching out and grasping Draco’s left wrist. He exposes the Mark, the grotesque skull’s eyes dead and dull now with no one to cast Morsmordre. “Just like this one.” 

Draco feels his throat tighten and convulse on the lump in it. 

He brushes his fingers over the strange oval shaped scar on Harry’s chest. Without saying anything, he leans down and brushes his lips against it. Even though Harry obviously saw it coming, he startles strangely. 

“I’ll tell you mine if you want to tell me yours,” he murmurs, lips brushing against Harry’s own with every word when he comes back up. 

Harry traces the claw marks on his shoulder before saying, “One of the Horcruxes. It tried… tried to drown me when I was in a lake. Strangled me, tried to keep me from coming up for air.” A fond, almost nostalgic smile finds its way onto his lips and he says, “Ron saved me.” 

“Remind me to thank Weasley,” Draco murmurs. 

Everyone had come to know about the Horcruxes after they had all been destroyed. Voldemort with his fragmented soul, immortal in artefacts. They had come to know that each had been destroyed in the time Hermione Granger, Ron Weasley and Harry Potter had disappeared for a year just before the War. Some on 2nd May, 1998 by others but most during that time. 

Now Draco understands what it must have been like, being so close to something so despicable, something that wanted only to kill, to destroy, to scar and cause harm. 

Harry snorts a laugh before tracing the claw marks on his shoulder tentatively with the tips of his fingers. “I think I know what this is,” he says. “There are only so many things it could be.” He looks up at Draco apologetically and Draco clenches his eyes shut against the onslaught of memories and nods. 

“Greyback, he…” he takes a deep breath before continuing, “He wanted me.” 

He opens his eyes and meets Harry’s and sees them widen in realisation and shock. “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” 

“Not quite. It didn’t progress too far, ever. But it was… definitely there. Definitely always, always there, in the rooms, in the walls, in my head. In his smile. All those terrible, rotten, stinking teeth, smiling at me across a room…” he can’t hold in his revulsed shudder. 

Harry’s hands tighten on his shoulder. 

“In any case, this happened when he came into my room one night. No Death Eater was allowed to protect their doors. Something about a trust of faith and loyalty. Locking spells were allowed, but nothing protective. The Dark Lord, Voldemort, I mean, Voldemort, Voldemort, would check on us. And one night Greyback just… broke open the door. I hexed him away but he kept coming and the one time he was close enough… he did this.” 

After another quiet, deep breath he continues, “Bellatrix saved me. Said if anyone, only Voldemort was allowed to touch me. How she, she couldn’t resist herself at some points in time but that, if anyone deserved to have me, as though I was some, some toy to be passed around in those circles, it would be him. Not them.” 

He lifts his hand and places it over the raised marks of the scar. “It feels dirty,” he admits finally. “So dirty. The Mark was my choice, no matter how pressured I was into it. The one on my chest is understandable. The others… well, they’re there. Horrible memories attached to them, would prefer it if I woke up one morning and saw them gone but this… this is the one I hate the most. This is the one that reminds me how little control I had. And I feel dirty. So filthy, so tainted and so fucking dirty.” 

There’s an unreadable look in Harry’s eyes. Instead of saying anything, he unexpectedly takes his glasses off. Then lifting his wand to his eyeline he casts a Temporary Vision spell. A fog clears in them, the green seems to impossibly brighten. And then instead of moving away or changing the topic as Draco had expected, he leans in and traces his tongue over the scar. 

It feels… horribly, achingly wonderful. The way Harry’s tongue drags over the already sensitised flesh, the way his lips brush electric sparks into the skin. 

And Draco hates himself for finding it so. 

It isn’t a scar Harry should be touching with his fingers, let alone his lips. 

When Harry pulls away, he hates himself more for wanting him to do it again, for having the plea so ready on his lips that one wrong word and he would be begging for it.

“Was that not alright?” Harry asks, concerned when he sees Draco’s face. 

“I told you what it was,” Draco whispers, choking on his words. “How could you stand to do that?” 

Harry smiles. It is so innocent, such an unassumingly beautiful expression that something clenched up and tense in Draco’s body eases. 

“It’s still you,” he says. “Still you, still your skin, still something you own. Something you survived. He hasn’t claimed that part of you, Draco. The skin on your shoulders doesn’t belong to Greyback. If it did, I wouldn’t go near it, but it doesn’t. It belongs to you. It’s still yours, Draco,” he enunciates, carefully, slowly, making sure every word hits home. “Still yours.” 

Draco isn’t sure Harry knows just how much his world has shifted in those few moments Harry spent telling him why he could stand to touch him. For so long Draco has avoided mirrors, avoided looking at any reflections, afraid of the reminders. But now, Harry’s soft words washing over him, he thinks of those marks the way Harry tells him to. Reminders of survival, not reminders of anyone claiming him. 

Still yours, Draco. Still yours. 

Without knowing how to stop himself, he pulls Harry closer until they’re pressed bodily against each other, skin pressed tantalisingly against skin. Draco’s shirt is still hanging off his shoulders and Harry has lost his T-shirt at some point during the process and Draco can’t help but lean in to kiss Harry senseless. 

Claim what’s yours, Draco. Claim it. Claim it again. And again. And again. 

When they pull apart, Harry looks slightly dazed but so pleased that Draco could perhaps replace the sun with the smile on Harry’s face. But soon enough the expression turns slightly serious and Harry asks, “Do you want to go on about the scars?” 

Draco thinks. He thinks of the memories pressing against the walls of the boxes where he has placed them and locked them, wanting to break out, create havoc. 

Then he thinks of the way Harry had made him feel. 

The answer is simple enough. 

He drags a fingernail over the most curious of all of Harry’s scars, hex damage spreading over the centre of his chest, like bolts of lightning in the night sky. 

Harry’s face falls slightly. 

“That’s…” he swallows, “That’s where the Killing Curse hit me.” 

Draco’s flicks a confused glance at the scar on Harry’s head and then it strikes him suddenly. The resemblance between them. 

The scar on Harry’s forehead looks like the jagged edges of lightning expanding on to Harry’s forehead. As though it had only caught on a corner of Harry’s being. This one is larger, more defined and prominent and more alarmingly, obviously recent. This Curse Harry had taken straight to the chest. But the commonality between the two, the obvious resemblance to lightning is there. And Draco knows of only one Curse that leaves a mark like that.

“Not when I was a child. When I was in the Forest. During the Battle of Hogwarts.”

Suddenly Draco is gripped by painful realisation, painful, burning understanding of Harry’s testimony on his mother’s behalf. 

“The Curse did hit you,” he gasps, shocked. “It hit you right in the chest but when my mother was asked to check if you were dead, you weren’t. You weren’t dead.” He grips Harry tighter, not knowing if what he is saying should even be possible. “You survived Avada Kedavra twice.”  
Harry nods. “I wouldn’t call the second time surviving. I died. I went to something in the… after. But I could come back.” 

That doesn’t make sense. 

There’s an edge of desperation in Harry’s voice when he says, “Draco, please don’t hate me.” 

Confused Draco looks at him. “Why would I hate you?” 

Harry visibly steels himself. “I survived the curse because I was a Horcrux. The part of Riddle’s soul in my body was what died when I got hit in the chest. In a way, he killed himself.”

He’s looking up at Draco, frightened, as though he expects a slap to the face. Which is why he lets out a gasp when Draco only pulls him closer and kisses his forehead gently. 

“You’re still you,” he tells Harry. “Still you. You never belonged to him. You don’t now. Especially not now.” 

When he lets go, Harry’s eyes are slightly shiny. He clears his throat and draws his knuckle down Draco’s cheekbone. “Here?” Harry asks. 

“What?” Draco responds, flabbergasted. Last he remembers, he had no War injuries on his face. Then suddenly he remembers the sharp pain that had not only required a few Healing Charms but also Murtlap and Dittany and lets out a burst of laughter. “That’s where Archimedes bit me yesterday.” 

Harry swats him upside the head but the tense atmosphere has eased considerably. 

“Turn around,” Draco tells Harry. Harry gives him a questioning look. “The scars on your back,” Draco hastens to clarify. 

The change in Harry’s countenance is immediate. His jaw clenches before he visibly relaxes it, his open eyes shutter immediately, pupils constricting. His lips purse and then droop down and Draco dreads whatever is to come. 

“If you’d rather not, it’s completely–”

“No,” Harry cuts him off before he can even finish. “You ought to know and I ought to say.” He jerkily turns around and when Draco reaches up to touch his shoulders, he finds them stiff as a board. 

The marks on his back which Draco has seen only once before for a split second are much more prominent than he remembers. They’re raised, thin lines criss crossing over Harry’s back. There are the scars Harry has all over himself, the other ones from nicks, cuts, scrapes and bruises that never healed right. These are… different. These are purposefully inflicted scars that were never even allowed to heal right. 

He doesn’t touch them, just waits for Harry to talk. 

When he does, his voice is so hard that it is unrecognisable.  
“My muggle cousin, he did that.” 

Draco’s jaw drops open. He had heard rumours about the Saviour’s less than ideal childhood and had passed it as a load of tosh. Just something to make the already overly sung Hero even more sensational. But then he remembers Harry telling him about his repressed memories of childhood, triggers he doesn’t even know of and a sick, sick feeling settles in his stomach. 

He reaches out and pulls Harry into his arms, until his back is a long line of smoothness against Draco’s chest. Under his touch, Harry is vibrating with tension. When Draco presses a soft kiss to his shoulder-blade, it eases somewhat but he’s still too highly strung for Draco’s comfort. 

“Harry…” 

“If you’re about to say I don’t need to talk about it, you can stop there. Don’t finish the sentence.” 

Draco chooses not to comment on Harry’s tone or his choice of words. It’s the right decision apparently because Harry sags a little and brings his own hands to rest on top of Draco’s. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I just, I don’t know how to talk about this but I think I have to. I know I don’t have to but I much rather would. I know it doesn’t seem that way but I…” he flounders but stops stuttering over his words at Draco’s reassuring squeeze. 

“My muggle cousin did that,” Harry says, voice still tense and breaking slightly over some of the words, but considerably less tight than it was before. “He found a bunch of birch twigs in a park once and they made a makeshift whip with them. They played around with it, hitting dogs and stray cats and occasionally each other. Dudley… he got to take it home with him. And I was the plaything, the helpless animal running around in the house susceptible to being beaten and he just went at it. He kept going and going and going… until Aunt Petunia came into his room. She made him stop… but the damage was done. The marks never left.” 

Draco frowns. “Why didn’t you just run away? To your room or something?” 

Harry stiffens again and his chest trembles in a bitter laugh. “My room was a cupboard under the stairs without a lock. It wouldn’t have helped.” 

Draco has never been so horrified. 

“Why did they never heal, Harry?” He asks. He knows the answer, can deduce it from what he already knows but until Harry says it out loud, he won’t believe it. Can’t believe it. 

“Aunt Petunia wanted to, I think. She was bringing some ointment when Uncle Vernon asked her what she was doing. And when she told him, he laughed and called for Dudley to tell him he was proud of the fine son he was bringing up. He didn’t let Petunia bring in the ointment.” 

Draco has a mad urge to find Harry’s Muggles, hex them into oblivion, make them remember again and then slowly, torturously, kill them until their remains were unworthy of even being scavenged. He says as much and Harry shakes his head with a slight laugh. It’s strained but genuine.  
“Don’t think I haven’t thought about that enough myself. But I don’t want their blood on my hands. And I don’t want them on yours.” 

“Just some hexing then.” 

“No, Draco,” Harry says, definitely amused now. 

He turns back around in Draco’s arms and presses a sweet, soft kiss to his lips. “Can we be done for today?” He entreats. Draco nods immediately. 

They fall back, almost seamlessly after that into teasing touches, hot and promising kisses and sharp, possessive bites. It’s almost as if nothing has changed but with every breath Draco takes with Harry’s citrus shampoo scented hair teasing his nostrils, he feels a little more of his world morph and narrow down to the gorgeous creature in his arms. 

He thinks, with the sort of warmth that comes from knowing something so deeply that it resonates in your bones, in your very essence that he’s falling in love. 

And he doesn’t know whether to be terrified or overjoyed by that knowledge.


	13. Through An Endless Diamond Sky

The proposal is presented. 

Kingsley and Hermione present it together– a deadly alliance of politically lucrative words and sheer force of will uniting in purpose. Draco is seated in the gallery with Harry on one side and Weasley to Harry’s other side, holding hands in a chain, waiting and watching with bated breath. 

“The world has seen extensive damage and there are open wounds that require healing. The Muggle World, though not entirely aware of the inflicted damage must be given an opportunity to understand what their children are entering into before their children are taken away for the year to an institution half of them do not believe in. Unless we begin the introduction early, the barriers of prejudice will remain unchanged and we will only live to see the rise of yet another fanatic,” Kingsley is saying, his deep baritone resounding in the silent, circular hall. 

“We only seek to begin an early introduction. When one is younger, one has a more open mind, and that eases the introduction to a whole new world. There are things to see that will be new to both Pureblood children and Muggle-borns. Things that upon integration will hold the Wizarding World’s hand to development,” Hermione continues earnestly. 

It has been going much the same way for the last half an hour. Kingsley has presented the budgetary requirements and the legal changes to be made while Hermione has expounded on the necessity of the project. Most of the heads are nodding along in deep appreciation while a few remain obviously sceptical. Draco is sure that they will get a two-thirds majority when one old witch in plum robes with a silver S.P. embroidered on, asks in the ensuing silence of Hermione’s closing statement, “But what about Draco Malfoy?” 

His heart drops down to his shoes and his stomach roils. Harry’s hand tightens in his and Weasley swears softly under his breath. Below, Kingsley looks to Hermione who appears completely unperturbed. “I approached Draco Malfoy with my project with the knowledge that he had been acquitted of War crimes. Crimes,” she pauses here, “against my own people, people who come from similar bloodlines as myself. Our antagonistic past relationship had led me to believe that Draco would only accept the proposal to associate the Malfoy name with something Pro-Muggle after their unfortunate War alliances but what I came to understand from our regular discussions and debates was that there was a reason that Draco Malfoy was acquitted. Seeing what he has seen, he understands better than most just how important a project like this is. Heading the Pureblood integration section of the project is his responsibility and thus far he has shown more than sufficient enthusiasm for it.” 

“How do we know he isn’t doing it simply for personal gain?” A wizard with a hooked nose asks. He was one of those sceptical from the start to the finish. 

Kingsley speaks this time. “Even if he is, which is not unlikely, there is little to be gained from cutting him out. His upbringing and knowledge of Pureblood customs and mentality is invaluable to the project’s success. If at the cost of his personal gain the Wizarding World avoids wars such as these in the future, in my opinion, it is a small price to pay.” 

A few more questions about budget and no more mentions of him, and the court is adjourned. 

There will be a vote passed tomorrow for which the presence of all involved parties is required and Draco groans at the realisation that he needs to be there, being criticised and judged by some of the most powerful witches and wizards. 

Harry pats his shoulder sympathetically. 

They meet outside the courtroom, Hermione clutching the papers to her chest, her hair flying around and an excited gleam in her eyes. She sees them and breaks into a sprint while Kingsley follows at a more sedate pace. 

“How were we?” Hermione asks, almost bouncing on her heels. 

“Brilliant,” Weasley says, kissing her on the cheek and smiling. Harry high-fives her and Draco after a moment’s hesitation hugs her tightly. 

“You were great,” he murmurs into her bushy hair and she laughs. 

“You do realise you need to be there tomorrow?” She asks, looking at both Harry and Draco. 

“Why me?” Harry asks, indignantly. 

“It’s your money too that’s going into this thing, Harry. If this Project passes, you’ll be a major investor. If you’re not there, it will reflect rather poorly on us,” Kingsley says, coming up behind Hermione.

It’s Harry’s turn to groan and Weasley slaps him on the back with a grin. “Go up there and look like the Saviour mate. They’ll all say yes in sheer gratefulness.” 

He meant it as a joke but both Kingsley and Hermione nod seriously. “Look nice, Harry. Draco, you’ll help him, won’t you?” 

Draco nods while Harry buries his face in his hands. 

When they go back to Grimmauld, Weasley leans into Hermione’s ear and says something which Draco wishes he had overheard because the result is Hermione’s cheeks reddening obviously. She looks towards Harry and Draco briefly, saying, “Boys, don’t burn the house down!” And then with an obviously suggestive look in Weasley’s direction saunters up the stairs. 

“Guess that’s my call then, mate,” Weasley says, grinning at Harry before rushing up the stairs after his girlfriend. 

“Don’t forget the silencing charms!” Draco calls loudly. “We still remember the last time!”  
“Fuck you too, mate,” Weasley calls from above before he’s cut off by what seems to be a disturbingly high pitched laugh from Hermione. 

The door bangs and Harry and Draco are left near the foyer in silence. 

They turn to each other at the same moment with matching grins and in seconds they’re jostling each other on the staircase, racing to Harry’s room. Draco pulls Harry in for a long, searching, exploratory kiss that leaves them both slightly breathless in the middle of the stairs and after that it’s an endlessly long period of time– crashing into banisters, leaning against the walls, hands and lips and teeth and tongue on every accessible part of each other’s exposed skin. 

When they enter Harry’s room, still kissing, moaning gently against each other’s lips, Harry’s shirt buttons are undone and Draco’s lost his somewhere along the way. Impatiently, Draco pushes the material off Harry’s shoulders and it falls to the floor. Moving backwards, he trips over it and stumbles surprised straight onto the bed on his back, pulling Draco down on top of him. 

Breathless with laughter, Draco snorts inelegantly. “Sure know how to make a man feel special, eh, Potter?” 

“If you’re still talking, I clearly have a long way to go,” Harry responds and before Draco can really process it, he’s the one flat on his back with Harry straddling his waist, intently facing him. 

“Harry,” Draco gasps when Harry’s fingers start on his trousers’ buttons. “You wanted to take this slow and I’m not sure if you should be doing that if you– oh, Merlin, oh yes!– want to– fuck, fuck– keep it, uh, slow–”

Pausing in his act of gently tracing Draco’s dick through his briefs, Harry leans down so his lips brush Draco’s earlobe, “If you’re quite done talking, I’d like to tell you I’m done taking it slow.” Immediately after he says that, he leans back up, sitting straight, a frown on his face, “Unless of course you don’t want to–”

“Are you fucking with me?” Draco asks, voice raspy, pulling Harry down and wrapping his arms around his neck. “It’s all I’ve wanted since the first time you lost your shit in that kitchen.” 

Harry’s lips twitch upward and at first he tries to stifle his laughter but soon he’s shaking with uncontrollable bouts of giggling which Draco probably shouldn’t find quite as adorable as he does. 

“You got the hots for me when I was in the kitchen with a wand in your face, shouting about your dad? Draco, we really need to talk,” he manages between gasps and deep breaths before busting into laughter again. 

“Haha, very funny, you utter prick,” Draco returns, rolling his eyes but ultimately not being able to stop the smile from creeping up onto his lips. 

“Speaking of pricks,” Harry teases and unexpectedly his hands, his wonderful, warm hands are pressing on Draco’s cock, through the cotton of his pants. It feels so unbelievably good, just the palm of Harry’s hand sensuously rubbing along his length, the added friction of the clothing on his over-sensitised flesh adding to the feeling of being driven straight over the edge. Just as he begins to arch into the touch, his cock straining against the fabric and creating a gigantic wet spot on the black cotton, Harry moves his hand away.  
Draco would like to tell himself he didn’t whine when that happened but he would be lying to himself. Blatantly.

Just as he’s about prepared to beg Harry to put his magical hands back where they were, there are fingers tugging on his waistband. Relief erupts through him at the thought of letting out his cock and he lifts his hips in open invitation for the pants to be slid down them. 

They’re pooling around his ankles by the time Harry’s done with them and his dick is pressing hot, heavy and hard against his navel. The arousal is so strong that it aches– there is a physical pain almost in his heavily hanging balls and bobbing dick but when he reaches out a hand to relieve some of the pressure, it is immediately swatted away. 

“Hands off,” he hears Harry murmur. Slowly, gradually, he slides down the length of Draco’s body, lips and tongue tracing and kissing and sucking down the expanse of Draco’s chest. There’s a distinct pattern for Harry’s ministrations and when he raises himself on his elbows as best he can to look down at Harry, the sight makes him gasp. 

Down the long, ugly Sectumsempra scar, there are hickeys lined up, red bruises and purpling skin and it is so unbelievably hot that his cock grows impossibly harder. Harry feels the change and gives an amused hum against the skin of his hipbone before pinching it with his teeth and gently nipping, causing Draco to almost arch straight off the bed at the assault of conflicting pleasure and pain on his nerves. 

With one hand, Harry pushes Draco back down on the bed, raises himself and crawls back up Draco’s torso, hands mapping the areas which lips had claimed moments ago. For a minute he thinks Harry will lean in for a kiss and prepares himself for it, smiling sultrily at Harry, wanting to feel those soft, dry lips against his own. But instead, Harry reaches down unexpectedly and sucks viciously on his right nipple and Draco sees stars. 

His hands fly into Harry’s already messed up hair, gripping it, tightening in it. He has always been sensitive there to the point of it being on this side of painful. But the sensations travelling up and down his body is so far removed from painful, the little electric jolts of pleasure arcing across his spine, his legs, his chest, his dick. 

His neglected dick bobs in the air but Harry pays it no mind, continuing his assault on Draco’s nipples. At the hint of teeth, Draco gasps and arches, with the soothing suckling he moans in pleasure. At the rough pinching and nibbling, he thrashes his head from side to side, lower lip pulled into his mouth, eyes closed and forehead scrunched. 

The stream of expletives falling from his lips are nothing to him but a string of distant words that have ceased to make any sense. He’s perceiving the world through the fog of the pleasurable pain and everything else seems so far-removed that he cannot be bothered by it. 

Just as abruptly as he’d begun, Harry stops attending to his chest and brings his attention back down. 

“Look at what we have here,” he says, voice so low that Draco needs to strain to hear it. “So perfect. So unbelievably perfect,” he murmurs and it is all the warning Draco gets before the teasing brushes of fingertips on his dick changes to the overwhelming sensation of a warm, wet mouth enveloping him.  
The unexpected contact is so all-consuming, so intense that Draco can’t hold back the scream that falls from his lips. 

“Harry, Harry, please, fuck, oh please, please, oh fuck, more–”

Harry responds with a hum and the vibrations around the heated flesh makes Draco almost start crying. 

“Oh, Merlin, I can’t, oh Salazar, fuck Harry, I’m gonna, I’m gonna–”

He tries to pull Harry off, not wanting it to finish so fast but Harry grips tightly on to hips with almost bruising force, continuing the suction around his cock. 

It isn’t long before Draco is tipped over the razor sharp knife edge he has been traversing, screaming Harry’s name and the desire for more, voice going hoarse with every shout. 

When he’s done, Harry’s mouth slides off in an exquisite pull and staring up at Draco through hooded eyes that used to be green but have now become a blown shade of brownish black outlined with a circle of forest green, he wipes away a stray dribble of come from the side of his face with the back of his hand. 

That vision shouldn’t be as hot as it turns out to be but Draco can’t bring himself to care as he pulls Harry down, hungrily kissing him, tasting himself inside his mouth. It should be disgusting, but it isn’t. 

Instead, it feels like staking a claim. 

Harry’s forehead rests against his and when Draco opens his eyes, Harry’s are closed. He goes slightly cross eyes from the proximity but manages to press two gentle kisses to Harry’s eyelids. 

“Thank you,” he says, unsure how to to convey your mouth around my dick was the best I have felt in my entire life and I never want it to stop. 

When Harry opens his eyes with open hunger and longing plain in them, he thinks Harry understands him. He hopes he isn’t wrong because if he is, it would bring him to his knees but he thinks Harry feels the same way. 

 

Harry has this feeling. 

It’s a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long time which is why it takes so long to place it but Harry has a feeling that he’s floating. That he’s weightless in time and floating and doesn’t need anything more to be added to his life for him to die happy. 

He thinks it is elation but it has been so long since he last felt this way that he can’t be sure. 

They’re lying side by side, not quite touching, but Draco’s playing with Harry’s hair and Harry’s hands are on Draco’s exposed hipbone. 

God, he loves that hipbone. 

It is a sharp jut of bone covered in alabaster skin so smooth that Harry couldn’t help but redden it up with bites and kisses. The way Draco reacts to touch… Harry could touch him all day, everyday. 

Draco hasn’t said anything since the rather spectacular blowjob and Harry can’t say he’s complaining. His last memory of Draco’s voice is it screaming itself hoarse, calling out his name. Not an unpleasant last memory, if he’s being honest.

He doesn’t realise what Draco is doing until those long, deft fingers have reached over to undo the button of his trousers with no warning whatsoever. He turns to look at Draco who has a faint blush on his cheekbones and who is determinedly not looking his way. 

He lets Draco have his way, lifts his hips when he reaches over to pull the trousers off completely. He’s wearing only his briefs and though he’s still coming back up from the spectacular orgasm he had given himself with his mouth on Draco’s dick, hearing his name on Draco’s tongue over and over, his dick gives a half hearted little twitch at the feeling of Draco’s hand pressing down nervously on it. 

Wait. 

He looks at Draco again, this time taking in the intent frown, the lip bite that indicates his concentration and the tension in his jaw which Harry has grown to learn means Draco is unsure, or nervous or confused. 

He places a hand over Draco’s where it’s on his dick, unsure but bold and drags it back up. He twines the fingers with his own and pulls Draco closer. 

“What are you doing?” He asks Draco. 

Draco looks away and says, “I did think that would be obvious.” 

“Draco,” Harry sighs, “stop that thing.” 

“What thing?” 

“The thing where you act all cocksure and confident to avoid a conversation.” 

“I don’t–!” Draco begins before sagging and saying, “Yeah, I do.” 

“So tell me, what are you doing?” 

Draco’s eyes are so full of overwhelmed anxiety that Harry feels quite alarmed. Hesitantly Draco begins, “If we go further than this, it will be my first time.” 

Wait, what? 

“You’re a virgin?” Harry asks. 

Draco blushes right up to the tips of his elf-like, pointy ears. “It’s not like, um, that I haven’t, um,” he stutters rather adorably, “done anything at all. Slytherin boys dorms were saintly places but the Quidditch locker rooms were a whole different story altogether and I’ve done… things. Some things. Most things. Just not…” he makes a clarifying motion with his hands and Harry bursts out laughing. When he finally reigns himself in, Draco is glaring at him through narrowed grey eyes. 

“That was rude, Potter. If you find it ridiculous, you should just say so– umph!” He shuts up abruptly when Harry almost pounces on him, kissing him breathless. When he pulls away, Harry says softly, “It’s not ridiculous. If I’m being honest, it’s hot. So,” he kisses Draco again, “wonderfully,” again, “hot.” 

This time the blush returns and Draco looks away, trying to stop the smile and not quite succeeding. Then he turns back and with a worried frown asks, “Wait. You’ve done it before?” 

Harry shrugs with a grin. 

“When did you even– How did you have the time?” Draco blurts out and immediately looks mortified. “Shit, I’m an idiot, oh Merlin, I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean–”

Harry starts laughing again. “If I tell you when I had the time, I think you might get up and walk away.” 

“What?” Draco asks, confused. 

“Are you sure you want to know?” 

“Yes?” 

“That doesn’t sound sure to me.” 

“Yes!” 

“Funerals.” 

Draco’s mouth drops open. “I beg your pardon?” 

“I had sex with people at funerals. Especially the Muggle-Born ones. They had all these distant relatives coming in, all these people who barely knew the dead body in a coffin but still felt obligated to come and say goodbye. I felt something similar. You’d be surprised to know how many people are willing to have sex in graveyards.” 

“You had sex in graveyards? Plural?!” 

Harry can’t help but start laughing again. This time Draco joins in. When they’re finally able to catch their breaths and wipe their eyes, Draco says, “That should have killed the mood.” 

Immediately Harry asks, “Should have? It didn’t?” 

Draco’s answering blush is probably more revealing than Draco himself would have liked for it to be. 

“Me talking about graveyard sex didn’t put you off?” Harry asks, leaning in closer. Draco tries to push him away, looking annoyed but Harry moves in, closing the gap till their eyes are so close that Harry can see the flecks of brilliant blue in Draco’s irises. “Wow, you must really like me.” 

All traces of amusement disappear from Draco’s face. “I do,” he says, quietly. “I really do.” 

And Harry can’t help but kiss him, taste those glorious words on his own tongue, claim those lips again. And again. And again. 

When they pull away, lips swollen and bodies trembling, Harry murmurs into Draco’s hair, “Me too.” 

He tells himself he’s seeing things when Draco’s eyes appear shinier than they should be.

 

They remain in blissful silence for some more time, simply enjoying each other’s warmth, each other’s comfort. Draco has memorised Harry’s breathing pattern. Eventually he asks, “If we were to you know, do that, what would you um, I mean, how would you like to, Merlin, I mean–”

“You can ask about sex, Draco. In fact, you can say sex,” Harry says, sounding more amused than he has any right to be. 

“Pardon me if all of us can’t be as crass as you, Potter,” Draco says immediately. 

Harry shakes his head fondly, “Are you trying to ask about preference?” 

“About what?”

“Topping? Bottoming? Who puts their dick where?” 

“Potter!” Draco exclaims, scandalised. Then as an afterthought he adds, “I believe I was talking about preference.” 

“I like it both ways,” Harry shrugs. “It’s a different feel either way.” 

“Which one would I like, do you think?” Draco asks and cringes immediately. It sounds like he’s asking for a book recommendation, or… or… an ice cream order or something. 

Harry seems to have other ideas. 

Instead of laughing or telling Draco how much of an imbecilic question that is, Harry moves closer to him. When he speaks, his voice has dropped a couple octaves, making it raspier, deeper, making Draco’s spent dick twitch.

“Now, are you really asking?” Harry asks. 

“I, I, uh, guess so?” Draco responds, unsure of where exactly this is going. 

“Why don’t I tell you what it feels like and you’ll tell me what you’d like?” 

The smile on Harry’s face is feral. 

Draco’s dick hardens. He nods, a short jerk of his head. 

“Now, then,” Harry begins, his hand moving down Draco’s bare chest. It comes to rest on a nipple. “Fucking feels like flying.” He yanks hard on the nipple, making Draco arch and gasp loudly at the unexpected pain. “The rush, the idea that you can do anything, be anywhere.” He reaches down and sucks the nipple into his mouth. “That feeling of sliding in, feeling lube and warm flesh against your dick, feeling the clench and the slide,” he licks the abused flesh gently, “the give of the muscle, the hole widening around you.” He moves to the other nipple. 

“Now, if you’re good at what you do, when you fuck, you get the added pleasure of getting to watch.” He bites down, gently, almost lovingly and Draco has a feeling that by the end of today he is going to die. “You get to watch the way their eyes shutter closed, the way their mouth falls open, the way they,” he slides his hand down Draco’s stomach till he reaches the navel and strokes Draco across it with teasing, light touches, “scream, when you hit the right spot.” His hand goes lower, teasing, brushing, not quite touching. “The way they dig their nails into their palms first and then the sheets and then your back. Or maybe if they reach out and cling to the headboard.” His eyes are black, only a ring of green around the pupils. 

“The way it feels around your dick when they clench down and hold you there. It feels the way it does during a blowjob, only tighter, headier, so much better.” His hands have travelled down to the head of Draco’s dick and he swirls his finger around the slit, collecting the gathering precome and sucking it into his mouth. He meets Draco’s eyes, “The way they shout when they come, the way they tighten, almost impossibly, the way it feels like a fucking dream come true.” 

And then he gently slides his finger along the slit, making draco squirm and moan. “Or would you like to be fucked? It takes more getting used to, but it could be better sometimes. Fucking is all about flying. Taking it feels like an extended moment of catching the snitch. Feeling that flutter in your palms. Feeling it jerk and twitch and knowing you have it, knowing you’ve won. That intense, beautiful feeling, that’s what taking it feels like.” His hands ghost down the length of Draco’s shaft. “That first slide in feels painful, hurts like hell. But there’s this moment, this moment when it just fits in and you feel so full, so deliciously full that you can’t imagine living without the added pleasure. Without the feeling of being connected to that person at a level so intimate and so,” he leans in close and whispers, “so incredibly filthy that you want to keep going till the end of time.” He quickens his pace, “It hits your prostate and it sends shockwaves up your spine and into your entire body, travelling from your arse to your arms to your thighs, to your cock. You can feel it coming, feel the pleasure cresting, feel the pain and the beauty of it right through to the moment when you can’t hold back anymore, the screams, the moans, the clenching and tensing and falling back.”

Draco’s breath has long deserted him. Hs entire world has narrowed down to the feeling of Harry’s hands on his cock and Harry’s mouth whispering dirty things into his ears. With those words, if he has a choice, he can’t be the one to choose. To put Harry in that position, make him fall apart and put him back together? Or to be that vulnerable, to be that open and allow himself to be taken apart? 

He arches when Harry’s fingers cup his balls and roll them together and Harry murmurs, “Do you have an answer?” 

“Unnnghhfff.” 

Harry chuckles, low and unfathomably sexy. “Alright. Should I keep talking?” 

Draco nods frantically. 

“There’s always the fingering. Slicking up the fingers until,” he presses the heel of his palm into the base of Draco’s cock and Draco is rapidly approaching the edge he wants to hold off just from harry’s hands and his words, “until they’re dripping with lube.” He circles Draco’s hole with the tip of his fingernail. “Doing this, circling the hole until you’re begging for more and then slowly, gradually slide in one finger up to the first knuckle.” He keeps circling and Draco is sure he’s going right out of his mind. “Keep pulling and pushing, pulling out and pushing in, gradually increasing depth until I’m in up till my third knuckle. Until your hole is greedily swallowing me in, pulling me closer, begging for more, begging for it to go deeper.” He scrapes his nails on Draco’s perineum and Draco feels the tears sliding out of his eyes, running down his cheeks. “I’ll push in two, then three, maybe even four. Keep at it till you’re dripping wet and loose and begging for more and the only more you could possibly get is my cock.” He leans in and kisses Draco, messily and dirtily and whispers, “And we already know how that one goes.” 

Draco’s hands have reached up to Harry’s back and he holds on there, scrabbling for purchase, gripping at Harry tightly enough for anyone to assume his life depends on it. 

He’s made his decision. 

“Fuck me,” he beseeches, pleading Harry. “Please, please fuck me.” 

Harry smiles, gently and sweetly, completely at odds with the way he was talking a few moments ago and kisses Draco again. This kiss is laced with promise, tasting of salvation and smelling of sweat and skin and sex. Draco’s never had a better kiss. 

“Here’s what I didn’t tell you,” Harry says, pulling away. “Before any of those other things, I’m going to rim you till you cry.” 

And ignoring Draco’s surprised cry, he ducks down, pushes Draco’s legs up from the thighs until they’re in the air and licks a hot, wet stripe down his arse crack.  
Draco screams. 

Harry doesn’t relent or hold back, he licks and licks and licks until Draco thinks he is either going to die from the edge he’s on or kill Harry. He reaches down, trying to grab at Harry’s hair but since his head is too far down, he grips at the bedsheets. His cock is so hard he thinks a brush of air against it would set him off. 

Harry seems to know this because whatever he does, he doesn’t even touch Draco’s dick. Instead he keeps licking around his arsehole, sometimes with firm hard strokes and sometimes with languid ones with the flat of his tongue. 

When he pushes the tip of his tongue into Draco’s arsehole, Draco can’t stop the sobs that rise up. 

“Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh Merlin fuck, fuck, fuck, I’m gonna, I’m gonna, Harry please, please, please please…” 

He’s talking nonsense, he can’t even hear himself over the rushing in his ears and the screaming in his head. And just before the pleasure gets too much to bear, before he’s tipped right over the edge, Harry stops and pulls away. 

Draco swings his arm. 

Harry easily dodges it, laughing. 

“Potter, I swear to Salazar–”

“Good things come to those who wait.” Harry’s tone is amused and teasing.

Draco wants to slap him. 

“Now the fingers,” Harry says, almost matter of factly. 

There’s a whispered spell and a sweet vanilla smell scents the air. Another and Draco feels slightly dizzy and his belly cleaner. 

“Vanilla flavoured lube?” Draco asks, sceptical despite the state he’s in. 

“Feels the same when it’s inside. I know from experience,” Harry says, the matter of fact tone still there.

For the first time, Draco’s nerves make their presence known in the pit of his stomach. 

“Harry,” he says softly. “Harry, you know what you’re doing?” 

Seeming to sense Draco is serious this time, Harry immediately leans up, looming over Draco. There’s a reassuring look in his eyes that puts Draco’s heart at greater ease than his words, “I do. I wouldn’t hurt you, ever.”

Draco nods. His anxiety is trying to come back, trying to make his brain spin right out of control. Talk about inopportune moments.  
Harry comes back up. “Hey,” he whispers. There’s a small smile on his face. “If you’re having second thoughts, we can do this later.” 

“Just tell me something?” Draco pleads, unsure what he’s even asking for. But whatever Harry sees in his face is enough. 

“I’m right here,” he says, looking Draco in the eyes, grounding him to the moment, “I’m right here, with you, looking at you and all I can think about is that I don’t want this moment to end. That I want to do this, with you, here and now, that I want to go to sleep with you in this bed after and wake up and go to supper with you.” He smiles, suddenly shy and almost boyish. It’s unrealistically charming. “I want to do this with you again and again and again and again until we’re sick of each other. And I don’t think I could ever get sick of you.” 

Draco’s heart wants to burst right out of his chest and flutter into the charged air surrounding them. 

Harry bows his head and his next words are so delicately soft that they’re almost inaudible. “I think I’m falling in love with you, Draco Malfoy.” 

Draco’s nerves disappear. 

There’s a buzzing in his head as he meets Harry’s hesitant eyes again. “What?” He asks. It comes out in a whisper. 

“You heard me,” Harry returns defiantly. 

“I heard you right?” 

“Probably.” 

“You’re falling in love with me?” 

“Yes.” 

And Draco can’t hold back anymore. He surges up to drag Harry into a breathless, open mouthed kiss and thrusts his hips up until his cock comes in contact with Harry’s rock hard one. 

“Get on with it, Potter. We do have all day but I’d much rather not waste it.” 

Harry laughs lightly and keeping his eyes on Draco’s, reaches under and circles a finger around his hole. He pushes and then pulls back, brushes lightly and then deepens the touch. He keeps alternating until the skin around Draco’s hole is moist with lube. 

“Come on, Harry,” Draco pleads, impatiently. 

The tip of a thick finger slides into his hole gently. It hurts like hell, burns like it too and Draco gasps at the strange, foreign sensation.  
“Alright?” Harry asks. “How does it feel?” 

“Just, just wait for a minute,” Draco winces through gritted teeth. “Just wait. Don’t… pull out. Wait.” 

“Okay,” Harry murmurs before leaning down to kiss him again. It’s dirty and quick and when Harry grabs at his dick, Draco gasps and bucks into it. It causes his arsehole to flare in pain but the feeling of Harry’s hand on his dick eclipses the pain. Harry keeps working it for a while and eventually the pain takes a backseat to the feeling of fullness and Draco finally says, “Alright, I’m alright.” 

“You’re sure?” 

“Get on with it.” 

Harry inches his finger slowly in, all the while keeping his other hand on Draco’s cock and though it does hurt like hell, it feels better than Draco thought it could be. He closes his eyes and just lets himself feel, the burn, the pain and the overwhelming pleasure. 

When Harry is in up till the third knuckle, he crooks his finger slightly. “What are you doing?” Draco asks, curious. 

“Just wait,” Harry pants. 

After a few more moments of Harry’s fingers stroking the insides of Draco’s arse, he hits something that sends sparks up his spine and he gasps loudly, startled. 

“The bloody hell was that?” 

Harry grins. “Was it good?” 

Draco nods, bewildered. Harry’s grin widens and says, “Your prostate. Say hello.” 

After that, the pleasure is an upward curve. With one finger that gradually turns to two stimulating his prostate and the other rubbing strong strokes up and down his cock, Draco is about ready to come when Harry removes the hand on his cock and stops moving the one inside him. 

“I’m adding another one,” he says. 

The pain comes back with the third one but there’s more pleasure than Draco could have thought possible before this. He gasps and moans and arches and squirms until Harry takes his other hand and holds his hip firmly in place. “You’re going to stop moving if you want me to not hurt you,” he says in warning. 

It is agonising but when he is finally used to the feeling of three thick fingers inside him, he raises his head and says, “Please. I’m ready now. Please?” 

Harry’s lips part and his tongue subconsciously emerges and licks them. “Are you sure?” He asks again. 

Draco nods. He is sure. He wants this. He wants this more than anything right now. 

Harry shifts and lines up and Draco feels a blunt head poking at his entrance. He takes a deep breath and nods again and Harry gradually, painstakingly gradually pushes in past the tight ring of muscle. 

It hurts. It hurts so fucking much. It hurts like a bitch. 

“Keep going,” Draco grits out. 

“Are you certain?” 

“Yes.” 

Harry nods and very gently pushes further and further in. It hurts more with every second but Draco clenches his jaw and powers through, hoping it gets better. He feels Harry’s balls against his arse and knows he is all in and when the pain doesn’t recede, he says, “Wait a minute.” 

Harry’s brow furrows and clears suddenly. “Let me,” he says and pushes Draco’s legs further up, changing the angle entirely. He shifts slightly, pulling in and out deep inside Draco and suddenly, all of Draco’s nerves are singing on fire as his prostate receives the full impact of Harry’s thrust. 

He shouts, a litany of profanities falling from his lips and Harry reaches down and places his hand over Draco’s clenched fist. 

Then he starts moving– deep and gentle thrusts at first that have Draco moaning steadily into Harry mouth and then moving onto sharper, shallower movements that have him screaming into Harry’s neck, tears streaming down his face. 

He feels his orgasm approach and whatever Harry sees in his face informs him of it too because the next thing he knows, Harry’s hands are wrapped around his dick and he’s timing his strokes to the thrusts. 

The double stimulation is too much for Draco and he comes, screaming, all over Harry’s chest and neck. He’s a vision, kneeling between Draco’s legs, his face flushed with sweat and perspiration, his eyes shining with adoration and tears. 

It isn’t long before Harry is throwing his head back, grunting and groaning and Draco feels warmth spread in his arse. Draco clenches his muscles around Harry’s dick throughout his orgasm and from the tightening of Harry’s hand on his, Draco is certain it has the desired effect. 

Harry slumps, exhausted on Draco’s chest and stays there for a while, unmoving, a breathing weight on Draco’s chest that is oddly comforting. 

“Me too,” Draco murmurs, softly. 

Harry opens his eyes to look a Draco and the confusion he sees in those pools of green light makes Draco break out in a fond smile. 

“Me too, Harry. I think I’m falling in love with you too.” 

The sated, sleepy smile Harry gives him soothes the ache in Draco’s heart that hasn’t gone away for a long, long time.


	14. Now I'm In A Whole New World With You

The proposal passes. 

And in that courtroom with stern witches and wizards staring down at them while the Chief Warlock declares their petition passed, Harry only has eyes for Draco who looks radiant in his navy robes. He’s smiling at Hermione while Ron slaps him on the back but he’s looking at Harry with that smile that makes Harry weak at the knees. 

The colour, Harry thinks, love coursing through his veins for the man standing before him, looking for all the world like he has won the lottery at the prospect of teaching hundreds of Muggle-born children, does indeed bring out his eyes. 

THE END.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Hero](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20195833) by [ununquadius](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ununquadius/pseuds/ununquadius)




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